


A Thousand Victories

by OMGitsgreen



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Complete, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Sexual Content, and a really hot makeout session too, archer!Patroclus, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMGitsgreen/pseuds/OMGitsgreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.” </p><p>In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU *COMPLETE*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ominous Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> Basically because I love the idea of Patroclus using a bow, I came up with this self-indulgent idea. I'm planning for this to be a short, three chapter fic. But you know how these things go, I might need another chapter or so to make sure everything works in as it should. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories._  
-Sun Tzu

* * *

In his dreams, Patroclus was home. The fields he dreamed of swayed in the midsummer breeze, stirring gently with it as soft as a mother’s touch. Leagues of golden grain, the scent of sweet grass, and fertile earth fresh within his memory were all the things he turned over anew every night. Patroclus lay in the grove of fragrant olives, the shade and morning dew cool against his skin. Patroclus dipped his feet within the streams, palming rocks shined by the lazy current that were as precious to his childhood as any token of gold. He tilled the land with his father, rendering it perfect for the birth of new crops and nourishment. The sky was nearly blindingly blue, nothing a match for its most perfect hue as the world above met the world below in perfect harmony. The only peace Patroclus had were in these dreams, surely brought to life by his own longing, and he savored them as a man dying of thirst did water. 

Patroclus had been naïve, he often thought to himself during the long nights awaiting sleep to take him. Perhaps it was in his nature to be so. He had never left the farm which his family had cared for in return for their place in the world. He had never had any desire to see the rest of the world, for Patroclus had always been happy enough with his means. He had been happy the farmlands he had grown up in, never knowing of strife or danger or furious anger. Patroclus believed there was no place where the gods lived more vibrantly and fully than in the fields of his birth. Patroclus was a simple boy, from a simple family of simple means. He had always believed the gods were simple as well. His family had sacrificed to the gods for good harvests and they had reciprocated. And perhaps that simpleness had shielded him, for now he knew that when it came to the fates of men far greater than himself, the gods threw themselves into discord and that discord turned the whole world to grief. Perhaps it was still nativity which allowed him to still dream, even as the grief of his father’s passing not even a year into the war was still heavy upon him. 

His dreams corrected reality, for no longer was nature beautiful. The ground of the flat plain before Troy was beaten down and muddy, watered with blood and fertilized by flesh-rot which led the odor to cling sickeningly on every inch. Horror hung in the air, only punctured by bellowing trumpets and bursting screams of men and horses. It was chaos, crashing dizzying chaos, foot soldiers and heroes thirsty for glory, country-men and foreigners roused into a fever pitch violence. Patroclus couldn’t help but be disgusted, disgusted at how easily these men who led the charge fought not for land or anything else besides honor. Honor which was the death of many a farm-boy like himself. And death was always there, just around the borders of his vision, ready to take him to the underworld to join his father. But at least in his dreams he found safe haven and harbor from daily horror. 

And yet Patroclus did not die. Somehow, he did not. Death courted him furiously, a spear only skimming his shoulder, a sword which nicked his neck, and a groove in the ground he fell over and because of this missed the kick of a desperate horse. Nine years and he still lived, taking an odd refuge among the bowmen in the line. He had used a bow before the war only in hunting to supplement a tenant farmer’s diet, but after nine years many commanders found him to be competent enough to not wish to lose. And he was still able to dream of those verdant meadows, which was as good of a reason to live as any he could see. 

But it was in his ninth year at battle when everything changed. It was then that Patroclus had a different dream than the empty farmlands of his longed for home.

The sky was just as vibrant, the fields just as golden. However he was not alone, instead, a long figure stood between the rows. He approached cautiously, and when the figure turned to greet him Patroclus stood as still as stone.

“Patroclus,” a man called to him, standing amongst the golden grain and yet outshining all Patroclus could see. His hair was like golden fire and his eyes black as night. Not a man, this could not be a man. Patroclus fell to his knees, his legs suddenly unable to support the weight of his body. He stared at the ground, unable to bring himself to look the divine being in the eye. “Child of man, you are wise to bow before me. Your pious nature has led me to favor you. Look up.”

“Me?” Patroclus couldn’t help but croak in surprise. “But I am nothing.”

“And yet you will be something, rise and stand before Apollo,” the god demanded with a grand gesture and Patroclus stood woodenly. He stared at the being, unable to help his faintness. Apollo, lord of the sun, was piercingly and hauntingly beautiful with smooth skin and cut features that no human could have. His beauty lingered like blind-spots in the eye when one gazed upon something far too bright. Patroclus felt delirious, fever-washed like the men of Greece as Apollo struck them down with illness only days before. Apollo would strike him down too, surely, if he was displeased. But Patroclus struggled to think of how he could ever begin to please a god.

“Speak,” Apollo ordered lazily. “I allow you too.” 

“What would you have of me?” Patroclus gasped, his words scarcely more than breath and pitch, his hands shook violently as if his whole body was being rocked at sea.

“You know of my righteous anger,” Lord Apollo told him his lip twitching in a snarl. “My priestess was taken, disrespect has been heaped upon me. I shall balance scale, however, with Aristos Achaion at the side of the plunderers my plans for their defeat are complicated.”

 _Best of the Greeks_ , Patroclus thought. Achilles son of king Peleus and the goddess Thetis. Patroclus had seen him in battle, watched the way he savored the carnage and butchery of war. He reaped men like one reaped grain, twenty heads in easy swipes of sword. Achilles nearly bathed in their blood, his laughter in the pleasure of fighting echoing across the battlefield like a terrible omen. Seeing him had always made Patroclus’s skin crawl as the inhumane nature of his conquest always struck too close. Patroclus had surely only ever survived because he had never met the man on the field, and had little desire to change that. 

“What would you have me do?” Patroclus asked again, clenching his fingers and attempting to stop their desperate shaking. “I am not a demigod as he is, there is nothing that I can do to stop him. I have barely managed to live this long.”

“He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”

“How could I ever?” Patroclus half-begged, willing the god to see reason, even though he knew such a thing would be in vain.

“You shall become the challenge, you shall become Achilles’ labor. Do you commit to what it is that I am asking of you?” Apollo asked him, his smile full of bared teeth which glinted off the sunlight like a knife.

“Commit?”

“If you do what I say, you shall be rewarded by me,” Apollo promised him firmly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You will be rewarded greatly.” 

“If I do what you say…” Patroclus said, licking his dry lips. “Will you protect my mother? My father died…I cannot remember either of their faces nor give either of them comfort. But please…will you protect her? She will be alone if I am to be that which Achilles must overcome.”

“That is truly all you wish? Not fame, not riches, not anything eternal?”

“There is nothing else I should presume to desire,” Patroclus told him.

“An honorable bargain is struck,” Apollo said before giving a vicious grin. “For Troy.”

Apollo reached out to him, seemingly across all matter of space, and pushed him. Suddenly there no longer any ground to receive his fall. Patroclus screamed, desperately trying to grab anything but nothing was there to stop his free fall. He pitched and then he was caught by water, dark and frigid. He desperately tried to swim but there was no end he opened his mouth to call for help but found his lungs filling with water that lit his insides on fire. He sank, seeing only black but feeling himself shudder uncontrollably, black as night, black as Apollo’s burning eyes—

Patroclus awoke soaked through with sweat, bursting up from his ragged blankets with a scream caught in his throat. For a moment he sat there, blurry and feeling oddly light as if a layer of his own flesh had been removed. He gasped, his head spinning from the nightmarish visions. A fellow soldier opened his tent washing his skin with fresh air. He stared at Patroclus, skin pallid and sallow looking from as many years as he upon the front line.

“Patroclus…we have to get going,” the soldier said quietly. “The Grecians are preparing for an assault.” 

Patroclus winced, and reached for his armor.


	2. Glory of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is ready for a long-action sequence. I’ve never written one before, so I only hope that it came out well enough to portray what I had going on within my head. Also, this is the last chapter I had a substantial amount written before hand for, so the next chapter will take a little longer to update. 
> 
> The response on the first chapter really blew me away. You guys are all awesome, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Feedback is a wonderful muse. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

Patroclus meant “Glory of the father”.

It was a grand name, almost ridiculous in presumption and power. It was a name that should never have belonged to a simple farm-boy, and instead should have belonged to a legend-hero or magnificent prince. It should have been a royal decree, not a rumble of well-meaning laughter among fellow troops as Patroclus dragged his feet to the front of the line. But Patroclus was just Patroclus, there was nothing magnificent or glorious about him, nor did Patroclus ever dream of aiming to be such. It was a name that Patroclus found himself to be wholly unsuited for, a calling that he would have resisted if he could. Perhaps resting in the laurels of his name was some sort of unspoken hope, a dream that neither of his parents ever made Patroclus privy to, that Patroclus would bring them both glory in some fashion.

Patroclus had certainly not brought his father glory as he had desperately dragged him behind the lines.

“A little more, please a little more,” Patroclus had begged as he half-carried and half-dragged his father. His hands were warm and slippery with his blood. Finally Patroclus had stopped, seeing his mad dash was doing his father no good, and kneeled by his side.

His father had looked upon him, and yet looked through him. His father Menoetius had always been distant from him or any other, as grim and sharp as a cliff’s edge, his shadow had always eclipsed Patroclus’s whole being. And somehow, even laying the pallid shade of death beneath him, his father’s shadow still completely enveloped him. 

For moment his father’s eyes met his, focusing upon him with an attention that had always escaped Patroclus. Eyes dark—black, and in them there was…there was something lighting up as if a door way had been opened, allowing him to view some truth in the greatest mysteries that had eluded him.

“Praise the Gods…” his father breathed. And blinked. And then he died. Unseeing eyes were burning a hole through Patroclus and into the sky where the void would forever remain unfilled, that last prayer escaping his cracked bloodless lips.

Patroclus never knew what his father was thanking the Gods for, but Patroclus had a feeling that it certainly wasn’t him.

* * *

The line of bowman trembled with the anticipation of battle heavy upon the air. Patroclus gripped his bow, trying desperately to halt his own shaking but finding it nearly worthless to try. In front of them was a thousand faces fighting for Troy, and Prince Paris standing in front. He glittered gaudily in his golden armor, announcing his presence to all who could see as he strutted up and down the line. He was fast, but not much of a fighter and everyone knew it. In comparison to the bear-like Hector who stood hulking and intimidating at his side, he almost appeared foolish, a peacock with too much attitude. Hector had squared off against the famous Ajax and been proclaimed equal (if Achilles had fought it would not have been so), and so it was a worthy mission to at least follow one of them.

“Victory is at foot in the coming days,” Paris announced for all the men to hear. “Hold the line no matter what!”

The Grecians entered the battle field. It didn’t take much looking to see the lines had been weathered by the illness that Apollo had struck down upon them. But there by the side of Agamemnon and the other glorious and fabled Grecian Kings, was him. He overshadowed them all with the unmistakable phoenix-plated armor that signaled the coming of the legendary monster himself. The men in the front, the poor doomed souls, shrunk back at the sight of this godling upon the battlefield. Patroclus swallowed back his own sickness and panic and shut his eyes closed in a desperate prayer.

A match? How could Patroclus ever be a match? He wanted to beg the sun-god but at the moment the sun was obscured by clouds. It had to have been a fever-dream, stirred in the madness driven into him by too many battles. It could not be, it certainly could not be. Patroclus was just Patroclus—

Horns blared, and battle cries were screamed. The Grecians ran forward in a mad dash, that phoenix upon gold nearly flying over the blackened mud as all others desperately rushing in behind him.

“Bowmen, aim!” Hector cried to them and Patroclus automatically notched an arrow in his bow, his muscles acting upon command so endlessly drilled in. Patroclus was focused upon that bird, Achilles the swiftest who ran as if he flew. Achilles a legendary creature, only in the shape of a man. Patroclus faltered in his gaze, certainly he could not hit that bird, someone else—anyone, “Fire!”

Patroclus saw and shot a foot soldier in the front lines rushing after Achilles. The arrow pierced him between the eyes. One of the bowmen next to him gasped out a compliment. Patroclus stood shocked before he notched another arrow and took another shot. He struck a Grecian in the opposing line in much the same way, and Patroclus winced as the clearness of his sight conveyed the rippling of muscle and how the poor man fell into the mud twitching. Patroclus had no time to think, he just turned to the shaking boy next to him.

“Give me all of the arrows in your quiver,” Patroclus ordered though he had no authority to do so. The boy stared at him, until Patroclus fired another arrow right into a Grecian swinging at Hector from behind. The soldier dropped dead heavily and landed in the mud, Hector looked around bewildered and Patroclus surely only imagined Hector staring at him for a moment. The boy next to him immediately began shoving arrows into Patroclus’ quiver, and eventually just handing them to Patroclus as he shot arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. Patroclus was sweating, his arms were shaking with exhaustion from pulling back the string of the bow again and again. In the corner of his eye he suddenly saw the phoenix pause in its rampage. A Trojan soldier desperately dragging himself away. The commanders ordered the line to hold but Patroclus felt sick because he had to do something—

And then Patroclus was running.

“Patroclus stop!” One of the boys cried after him but Patroclus was rushing in, his legs carrying him out into the field. It was too late, he couldn’t do anything but he had to do _something_. Patroclus could never do anything but he had to try.

He slid beneath the swing of a soldier’s sword, dodged a spear, and then sprinted until his legs carried him up on top of a crashed chariot. With a cry Patroclus leaped, stringing and shooting his arrow directly at the phoenix breastplate.

The arrow bounced off the metal, but the force of the strike and the surprise of it was enough to send Achilles yelping and falling backwards, only momentarily stunning him. Patroclus landed with a roll which he felt ache in his ribs, but he scrambled to his feet. 

The soldier, with wide-dark eyes stared at Patroclus, and Patroclus just cried and desperately waved his arm,

“Run you fool! Run!”

The soldier and a few others who had so far survived the wrath of Achilles desperately bolted, dragging wounded comrades behind them. The monster drew himself to his feet, his golden armor splattered with mud and blood. Patroclus gripped the shaft of his bow, his fingers white and nearly bloodless. Achilles charged forward, his arm swinging in a deft and deadly swing that rang out in the air. Patroclus, having no time to draw his sword, jumped back. Another swing and Patroclus kicked up an arc of mud which slowed the next swing with surprise. The monster lunged forward, sword too close to dodge, and Patroclus desperately pushed the shaft of his bow into the hilt of his sword. Patroclus looked up, trying to ascertain any of this creature’s next moves.

And a glint of green caught Patroclus utterly off guard. It was the green of the lush verdant meadows of his dreams, the green of rolling hills of nature unsullied. Achilles, son of king Peleus and the goddess Thetis, harbinger of death, devourer of men upon the battlefield, the roving monster that Patroclus had feared and fought for nine years had green eyes. Green eyes settled in a face that had to be as young as his own, skin golden and unmarred, a face sculpted delicately and so handsomely that surely the Gods had to have had a part in it. Somehow, against all reason or sense, Achilles was a man.

Patroclus desperately tried to hold his position, knowing the moment he disengaged Achilles would strike. Against Achilles’ monumental strength his muscles trembled and cried out in agony, and the wood of his bow creaked. A smile, wide and half-mad cracked upon Achilles’ lips and releasing a laugh that was rough and biting. He looked desperately giddy, and Patroclus was filled with an acute sense of dread. Achilles released strength enough to cause Patroclus to lose his balance and stumble back. Achilles’ sword swung, but in that moment Patroclus desperately struck out with his bow. The giant warbow had a longer reach than either of them expected and smacked Achilles’ hands upon the grip of his sword knocking the blow away.

Horns blew, announcing the end of combat. Patroclus stood across from Achilles in the field, and for a moment they did nothing but look towards each other. Maybe, Patroclus thought dizzily, Achilles was just as stunned as he. But Achilles said nothing, turned on his heel, and walked back towards the Grecian camp while Patroclus stood emptily and let his bow slip from his grasp. It could have been moments, or it could have been hours. However Patroclus collapsed, his legs suddenly unable to hold his weight. His arms lay on the mud, trembling from the continual exertion and the massive blows they had endured, and he finally was able to gasp air into his burning lungs.

“Someone get him water!” Someone called desperately, very far away. His helmet was yanked off from his head allowing for him to feel the blessedly cool breeze, and someone grabbed him by the midsection and he was dragged off the field. Patroclus was so tired he could say nothing as he was lay down in the medical tent. Frigid water was dumped upon his face and Patroclus jerked up, his cheeks nearly burning as he realized he swooned. However that fact was quickly overtaken as men crowded into the tent, they chattered at him like a flock of wound up birds eagerly awaiting morsels of gossip before Patroclus could get in a word edgewise.

“I couldn’t believe it!”

“How did you do it?”

“I’ve never seen anyone square off against that beast!”

“Get out of my tent!” The man in charge of the tent cried at all of the swarming army men. “I have people to treat and I will not have you all here! Leave!”

“Where is he?” The voice boomed and rang out, leaving all others silent. They moved out like the tides, parting and scampering away. There in the tent stood golden Paris and bear-like Hector behind him. Patroclus struggled to get up, his arms barely able to lift his own weight.

And that was when Patroclus was shocked to see Hector kneeling down to his level.

Hector, the Trojan Prince, descendant of the founder of Troy. He was often said to be most pious, most noble, and most good. Patroclus had often seen him sacrificing to the gods, and had seen his prowess upon the battle field. Truly Patroclus had shared the field with the most talented fighter that Troy had to offer, and it was this man who ran his fingers through his beard thoughtfully and gazed toward him.

“Are you man, or god-born?” Hector asked him seriously. Patroclus sucked in a breath at the sacrilegious idea. Him? God-born? That was impossible, but so was being able to meet Achilles in battle. And yet he had done it, so perhaps wilder things could be considered. 

“I am a man,” Patroclus answered, his voice hoarse.

“What is your name?” Hector asked gently, as if sensing Patroclus’s own distraught panic arising.

“Patroclus,” he managed from between trembling lips.

“Very well, Patroclus,” Prince Paris said his name flippantly muddying all the syllables together, and settling down beside his bedroll. He popped the cork open to his wine, took a long drink from it, and then looked back towards Patroclus with eyes that did not hide their seriousness. He offered the wine towards him. “I believe you have a few things you need to tell us.”


	3. The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I officially have no idea how many chapters this is all going to take me. Definitely more than I originally intended, but hey. Sometimes a fanfiction writer’s gotta do what a fanfiction writer’s gonna do am I right? But the good news is, ask for more Patroclus and Achilles interaction and you get Patroclus and Achilles interaction. Also, idk, I kind of am liking Apollo a lot. Miller didn't give much to go on personality wise so I'm kind of winging it, but I'm (mostly) resisting any Riordan influence for now...for now. 
> 
> Enjoy! And thanks again for the feedback guys, I really appreciate it.

In front of Paris and Hector, Patroclus felt like a child. Gangly and awkward he did not know what to do with his hands, or whether he should look the two famed sons of Priam in the eye. He had followed them into many battle many times, but being before them with their attention trained solely upon him alone was dizzying and almost unbelievable. But by the standards of the rest of the day it almost seemed completely mundane, which was perhaps the most worrying thing.

“Apollo came to me in a dream,” Patroclus recounted between gulps of the water which was offered to him. The water tasted sweet as any divine nectar and cool his parched throat that was still gritty with battlefield mud. “I didn’t believe it, or rather I couldn’t believe it and didn’t want to believe it.”

“What did he say to you?” Hector asked intently.

“That he was dishonored by the Greeks. That I was to be Achilles’ labor,” Patroclus replied, the words tasting of metal scraped against his teeth. He winced and tried to swallow down the sensation with more water. “And Lord Apollo was to have me stand against him as an equal.”

“He gave you talent with the bow,” Hector said thoughtfully. “You saved my life.” 

“I didn’t…” Patroclus tried to argue dully.

“Is that why you ran out to meet Achilles on the battlefield?” Hector continued to prod but Patroclus just shook his head.

“No,” Patroclus told him, “I just had to do something. I didn’t think.”

“And quite the labor you were,” Paris huffed sounding miffed. “You stood up to him, clearly. However, what sort of tricks were you even—“

Hector held up his hand to his brother and Paris sighed and went back to taking long swigs of wine, as if he were the one to have been having the unbelievable day. Patroclus felt hopelessly desperate. However Hector’s even gaze met Patroclus with a certain amount of belief that Patroclus was sure that no one had ever looked at him with before in his entire life.

“Lord Apollo has favored us, as such we must honor this. We will sacrifice ewes and throw a feast in Apollo’s name. Patroclus, you will join myself and Paris as we announce this good tiding to the rest of the soldiers.”

“Me?” Patroclus nearly squeaked his voice cracking in an utterly embarrassing adolescent matter.

“Yes you,” Paris said shortly before standing up and wiping his tunic with a level of disgust as if he were trying to wipe himself clean of Patroclus’s presence. “As much as I don’t like to admit it, boy, you are our best hope against that monster. Apollo gave you to us, so we will use you. And by all the Gods, someone needs to find you better armor and weapons, I suppose I can…”

Paris ended his sentence with an indignant scoff before corking his wineskin.

“You mean…Achilles?” Patroclus said, trying to swallow back bile. “I barely did anything against him.”

“You survived,” Hector said firmly and ominously. “And now we celebrate.”

* * *

The scent of burned sacrifice thankfully did not follow him into sleep. His dream that night contained no golden fields or bright blue skies. Instead, his dream settled itself at the hill at the edge of the olive grove. Upon which, a single pomegranate tree had dug its roots. Patroclus had always waited anxiously for the ripest times. Every day him and his mother would look at the fruits and wait for them to ripen just so. Collecting from the lowest hanging branches and then carefully collecting the fruit at the highest branches in order to savor every bud. It was the long awaited yearly trip, to finally collect those fruits which had budded upon the top most branches, and Patroclus could feel the childish excitement still permeating within the glowing dreamscape.

His mother stood beneath the tree her light skirts fluttering out in the gentle breeze which was sweetened by the scent of ripe fruit warm within evening sun. She stood by the basket, looking up at him with wide and anxious eyes. In that moment he saw her, her visage so heartbreakingly clear to him. They had the same owlish eyes which took up most of their faces, eyes which were liquid brown like a doe’s settled between noses a hair too thin, the same twitching of fingers, the same not-quite full smile upon sliced thin lips. However, unlike Patroclus, who had always been fretful, his mother was soft and rounded with age and experience. At her temple a starburst of white against brown skin which was caused by an accidental fall in her youth. It was these imperfections that Patroclus so desperately loved, and made her so perfect to him.

“You must be careful, Patroclus! Pomegranate tree branches are delicate!” His mother called out to him sweetly and with motherly alarm. He reached, pulling himself up upon the branches which creaked beneath his scant weight. Pudgy and childish fingers reached out to pluck the fruit that hung red and vibrant within the green leaves. He twisted the fruit from the branch, marveling at the beautiful pomegranate which sat within his tanned fingers bold and fresh-scented. If cracked open, pomegranate seeds would certainly spill out as precious as any jewel within a chest, glittering within the evening sun which was warm upon his shoulders and neck.

“I know mother!” Patroclus called down to her, still admiring the beautiful fruit cupped within his hands. He looked up, hoping to share his newly discovered treasure with her and the confidence of a job well done.

But she was gone as if she never existed there at all, and with a blink the world had been plunged into night.

“Mother? Where did you go?” Patroclus called out, grasping the branch firmly to keep his balance. Suddenly he noticed it, the ground shifting and bubbling like the blackest pitch. Patroclus’s breath hitched harshly and a scream caught behind his teeth as he watched in horror as hands coated in the tar began scrabbling up the bark. The pomegranate fell from his grasp, sinking into the muck, and Patroclus did all he could do and began desperately climbing.

_You must never carelessly climb pomegranate trees, Patroclus, pomegranate trees are—_

The branch beneath his foot gave way, Patroclus cried out as he fell hitting the water as black as night.

_—connected to the underworld._

The blackness gave way to another scene. The sea churned dark and cold against the grey beach. The moon was mostly obscured by the clouds, allowing only a few beams of pearly light to illuminate the scene. Patroclus was floating above, and yet within. And within that dream he saw two figures upon that desolate shore, in the shape of a man and a woman but in no way resembling them. Apollo’s dark skin glowed as if lit from within, curls of dark-gold furling and unfurling against the sharp sea breeze lending to his natural ease. She, however, stood as stark and jagged as the rocks lining the shore with her unnatural height drawn up rigid. Her skin was pale as bone, her black hair blending into the sky as her dress fluttered out in the brewing storm. Her eyes, just as black as Apollo’s and yet glittering with danger, turned upon the other god with an expression almost too angry to be called something as simple as hatred.

“Have I not endured enough? Suffered enough humiliation?” She sneered, lip pulling up to reveal her bared teeth. Patroclus jumped, the gritting and grinding sound of her voice surprising him. “My son is to be a god, the greatest of all warriors, and yet you dare to interfere with your petty games.”

“I believe the one who is being petty is you,” Apollo chuckled warningly. “I was the one truly disrespected in this, and besides, in the end I only gave your son what he truly wanted.”

“You know nothing about Achilles,” she hissed at him. Her son was Achilles, Patroclus thought. Achilles’ mother, so utterly different than his own. This must have been the sea-goddess Thetis, and Patroclus shuttered to think of the consequences of her displeasure.

“I know everything about humans,” Apollo answered flippantly, as if her anger was as inconsequential to him as the breeze. “And I know how your son smiled when he met my champion upon the battlefield. Maybe it is not me who you should be angry at, but instead your son. After all, my warrior was not the one who pulled his final punch.”

Thetis made a sound that was a cross between an indignant hiss and screech before she stormed off into the sea. For a moment Apollo sighed before turning a smile towards Patroclus that would have been apologetic if Patroclus wasn’t also as inconsequential as the breeze to him.

“I cannot hate her for her ambition, since that is the only thing charming thing about her,” Apollo chuckled. “But since she is a lesser god I suppose she has nothing else to bide her time with. She cannot do much by herself, but heed her anger as a warning, Patroclus. And do continue to please me, or else you might have some cause to worry. Lesser gods may not be able to do much, but they can certainly try.”

Patroclus wanted to answer, but found he could not. Words caught and stuck within his throat, and Apollo smiled a bit more genuinely as he waved at him,

“Now, awaken.”

* * *

Patroclus awoke roughly, his stomach still in his throat from his fall backwards. He stuck his head out of his tent, savoring the cool air. A pink dawn had just broken over the fields, and the distant Grecian camp glittered like a prize to be won. Patroclus roused himself fully, washing his face in the basin, and was immediately asked to help strap on another soldier’s armor.

The conduct of the army was on a schedule that was almost hilarious in its banality. They fought a few days of the week, taking rests and festival days off. It was a battle of honor, no land acquired or treasures won. But the simple routine had been broken, when Patroclus stepped out of his tent with his armor on and his bow slung upon his back the crowds of men parted for him. Perhaps it was the beautiful new war bow, or the shining armor which gave him away. But Patroclus had refused any of the other more showy pieces that Paris tried to show onto him. As he arrived in formation the bowmen also looked towards him with fascination, even as Hector offered up a sacrifice.

“He prays so intently,” Patroclus couldn’t help but note. The bowmen faltered in their attention to him, and looked towards Hector.

“He will eventually face Achilles,” one of the other archers said. “Have you not heard? It was prophesied that Achilles would kill Hector.”

“But why? Isn’t Paris the one they are trying to kill?” Patroclus asked them all with a certain sinking feeling in his gut, perhaps with his newfound connection with Apollo something about prophecies made his skin tingle. “What has Hector ever done to Achilles?”

No one seemed to have an answer.

The regular war speeches were given, the Greeks pulled up onto the field about the same time they did. Patroclus shuddered at the sight of the glittering golden phoenix, but this time his commander ordered him to the front line. He stood by Hector and Paris, trying to hide behind them if he could.

“Patroclus,” Paris said private to only the ears of the most high ranked officers, and Patroclus stared at him. “There is a reason we need you to fight Achilles. The Lycians are coming here to reinforce us. Sarpedon son of Zeus shall arrive with them and give us this war. We must hold, and when they arrive this war shall end.”

“Son of Zeus,” Patroclus said quietly, trying to steady his shaking hands by unsheathing his sword. It was balanced right, as Paris had ordered, but it still felt wrong in his hands.

“You are no demigod, but for the moment you are good enough,” Paris nearly sneered. “Are you ready, boy, to meet the wrath of Achilles?”

“No,” Patroclus answered honestly.

“Good,” Hector supplied, unsheathing his sword. “Hubris is not your fatal flaw. Live and the muses will inspire poems about you.”

And they began the charge. Beside Hector and Paris who so easily downed men, Patroclus felt like a child. He winced as he stabbed feeling muscle and bone crunch against the sharp blade, desperately trying to slow his attackers instead of killing. He ran, always refusing to acknowledge the splashes of gore which left his stomach rooted in sickness. He ducked and twisted and ran, and somehow his legs led him to their intended goal.

Achilles looked towards him, after dispatching a foot soldier by cleaving him nearly in half with ease. His golden armor was splashed red with blood, and for an odd moment he wondered if Achilles would bleed red as a man or gold as a god. With a battle raging around them the air held a kind of silence that made Patroclus tremble with anticipation. Achilles circled, a lion preparing to strike it’s pray, and Patroclus moved in order to keep from meeting him.

“It is you again,” Achilles said as he twirled his sword absently and in a blur of movement that almost made Patroclus dizzy. His voice was shocking to Patroclus, it sounded crisp, golden, and flowing. Sweet and pure as water, and with the brightness of lemons. As the blood of the gods flowed differently in every god-child, if Achilles’ speed wasn’t already famed Patroclus would have been sure it would have been his honeyed voice.

“It is…me…” Patroclus answered in an awkward tumble of words.

“What is your name?” Achilles asked, still stalking him with the grace of a wildcat.

“Isn’t it custom to introduce yourself first, before demanding a name?” Patroclus asked him in his bitterness and fear. It was his right to ask who Patroclus was, but Patroclus was angered that this right was being used so flippantly as Patroclus was surely just prolonging his death. 

“You already know who I am,” Achilles answered. The words were thoughtless, as if the idea of someone not knowing who he was had never crossed his mind. But it did not strike Patroclus as mean-spirited, rather, it was oddly childish.

“You are the prince,” Patroclus snapped his voice raw in his spite, “you are the reason I cannot go home.”

Achilles tilted his head to the side in the barest of ways, like a curious fledgling bird in answer.

“I’m Patroclus,” Patroclus introduced, the bareness of his name ringing flatly in the air.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said his name as if rolling it over his tongue and tasting it, sounding out every syllable.

And then Achilles attacked him.


	4. Godly Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really killing this one update per week thing right now, and I’m pretty proud of that. I’m even a whole day ahead of schedule with this! Hip hip hurray for summer fanfic writing. Also for all of you who wanted more Patrochilles interaction, here you go! Again, thanks to everyone who has been reading and leaving feedback, you guys are all awesome. Enjoy!

Patroclus scarcely escaped Achilles’ first attack with his life. Achilles lunged as a monster thirsty for blood and violence. Patroclus, unable to draw his sword in time, dropped himself to the ground letting Achilles’ chest meet his feet and be launched through the air by the momentum. Achilles’ surprised yelp rang in his ears. Patroclus scrambled up, his neck slick with the blood that Achilles’ sword had scratched from him as his heartbeat desperately pounded in his ears. Achilles had gotten to his feet and brushed off the dirt off of his knees and armor lackadaisically, there was no urgency in his movement or manner and that was what made Achilles utterly terrifying.

They fought each other for what felt like hours, their man-on-man attack only punctuated by Achilles slaughtering any Trojan warrior who tried to take advantage of Achilles’ diverted attention. No Grecians tried to attack Patroclus, and Patroclus suspected it was because if they had Achilles might have tried to kill them as well.

“So it is not luck,” Achilles laughed like a bark of a wild dog as he charged in again. Their swords met with a loud clang, sparks flying like stars bursting across their edges. Patroclus ducked under a swing and kicked Achilles’ leg hard with his heel, causing Achilles to stumble back and shake it out. He laughed again, as if his own pain was amusing to him, as if they were boys playing dice and arguing over petty things instead of exchanging the blows of a sword. “You are able to fight against me!”

“Do you normally speak so much when you fight?” Patroclus demanded of him angrily, shoving him with as much strength as he could muster as their swords met once more. It did not faze Achilles who just chuckled, his laughter sweet and smooth like honeyed wine. 

“I have never met anyone like you before,” Achilles told him honestly, his smile splitting his face and bearing his teeth as he kicked up a shield with his foot and caught it easily. His sword met Patroclus’ again. Achilles met Patroclus’ attempts to push him back and easily swatted them away with both shield and sword. He was expecting this, Patroclus realized quickly as sweat stung his eyes and plastered his curls to his forehead beneath his helmet. He would never best Achilles by doing what was expected of a soldier, Achilles had fought and killed more soldiers than Patroclus could ever imagine. Perhaps, he thought gritting his teeth and tasting blood, it was time to do something unexpected.

And so Patroclus threw his sword.

It was sent flying handle over blade until it stuck through Achilles’ shield. Achilles, stunned by the impact and the suddenness of action was completely unprepared for Patroclus’ punch which sent his helmet flying. Achilles recovered his bearing quickly, but Patroclus had an arrow knocked and aimed at his neck before he could move.

Achilles had hair like fine gold, curls that were half tied back and released from his helmet which still lay upon the ground. Patroclus could see how a prince’s golden circlet would sit perfectly there, how a hand could gently brush the stray curls aside and across marvelous unmarred skin. Achilles lifted a hand to his mouth, drawing the blood where Patroclus’ fist has scraped him. His grin rivaled that of any God he had seen in his dreams, as if the discovery of his own blood was glorious to him in a way that was foreign and unexpected. Patroclus wondered if even Achilles had doubted that he could bleed or be made to bleed.

“So your blood is red,” Patroclus noted quietly as he inched forward, his hand which had struck Achilles was aching. “If I shoot you, perhaps you will tire of treating this as a game.”

“Tire of this? I think not,” Achilles scoffed like a boy being challenged to a race. He held his hands out and proclaimed, “I could fight with you like this all day, Patroclus.”

 _Pa-tro-clus_ , the way he pronounced each syllable like a newly found treasure made Patroclus shudder in a mixture of emotions he had no name for nor did he wish to confront them at that extremely pivotal moment, Patroclus told himself sternly. 

“Your father must not have disciplined you well if you believe that being struck is enjoyable,” Patroclus told him with a humorless laugh. “I always knew being punched as being a punishment for my foolishness.”

“My father never dreamed of hitting me,” Achilles said with a blissful grin that was as sweet as sunsets and ripe pomegranate fruit. “I was too dear to him, too perfect in all things, and now that I have found this everything shall be perfect. You are giving me all I’ve ever wanted. A true challenge worthy of me.” 

“Perfect—what is all of this to you?” Patroclus demanded of him incredulously, something like morbid curiosity holding him back from releasing his arrow. “What are these men who lay dead at your feet to you? _Amusement_?”

“They cannot fight me anymore,” Achilles answered as if that was the obvious conclusion to be drawn, his face smooth and completely lacking grief or sadness or anything. He looked blankly at the corpses around him as if only then registering his own power, but his eyes were void of all things warm and the opposite of the giddy sunset grin he had just given Patroclus. “They served their purpose in this war and now they are dead, and no one will remember their names for they were not great. But you can still fight me, and I shall have you fight me until I kill you.”

The sound that escaped Patroclus’ lips was caught between a gasp and a gag. Patroclus was revolted. His outrage trickling between his shoulders and making his hair stand on end. He suddenly was seeing Achilles clearer than he had ever done so before, and no longer was he afraid of Achilles. The only thing he had left for him was sadness.

“What made you this way?” Patroclus asked him honestly and openly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, a dark wave rushing towards them. “What made you like this?” 

Achilles flinched back as if Patroclus had struck him, his attention trained solely on him and not the rumbling and screaming. 

“What made me—“ Achilles asked before sucking in air roughly as if awakening from a dream, and suddenly his expression twisted into feral hatred. “Why do you look at me that way? Why? _Why do you look at me as if you pity me?!_ I am Aristos Achaion, I am—“

“You are disgusting,” Patroclus told him with no pleasure, eyes flitting to the side seeing his savior flying closer, his body itching for the movement. “And you are broken, just like all other men. Now bow down and give these men who died protecting their homelands the honor they are due, or I will make you do so.”

“I will eat you alive for daring to speak to me that way,” Achilles growled before shouting. “I will cut out your tongue!”

“Then do it if you have the nerve!” Patroclus shouted back at him, taunting him despite it most likely causing his death. “Come on and do it! Fight me!”

Achilles moved, and Patroclus loosed his arrow. It was a purposeful miss, skimming Achilles’ cheek, and it caused the very flinch Patroclus needed as he dove out of the way of the oncoming chariot. The Grecian driver was dead but horses nearly screeching as they charged blindly and crashed through the battlefield. Achilles met his gaze for a moment, caught between confusion and anger as he got up—

The horns blew, signaling the end of battle.

Achilles stood there, his anger nearly simmered in the air like a trick of heat and sun. Patroclus hadn’t been able to see it before, but the way his brow drew and the twitching of fingers into fists reminded him of the goddess Thetis whom had made a very similar expression upon the desolate shore. But Achilles would not make a move, his honor prevented him, and Patroclus supposed he could at least admire that. 

“I am not the one who should kneel,” Achilles told him darkly, hanging on to his composure—barely. “I will never kneel to anyone.”

“I am able to fight against you and twice I have survived,” Patroclus told him quietly as he placed the arrow in his hand in his quiver. His own calmness was surprising to him, a balm to the hurt that hung in the air. “If nothing else, for the moment, I deserve your attention and perhaps can give you council.”

“What could you council me in?” Achilles asked, sounding unpleased but obviously willing to listen. 

Patroclus met his green-eyed gaze evenly. Patroclus wouldn’t have been surprised if they were just about the same age, but Patroclus felt ancient in his bones from so many battles and so much loss. He wondered vaguely if the godly blood which sustained Achilles was what imbued him with the deadly innocence that Patroclus saw in him, or if that innocence which cut as vicious as any dagger was from the lack of hardship throughout his life. And if it was this godly blood that kept him innocent, beautiful, and deadly if it was possible to change even some of that for the better. But Patroclus also knew, by the gaze and attention he received that Achilles was wanting of something different than a challenge. Perhaps he just didn’t have the word for it, and neither did Patroclus.

“What in the name of the Gods are you actually fighting for? I am fighting for my life, and the lives of my countrymen. You’ve proclaimed that you are fighting for fame and the immortality that comes with it. Fine, I cannot argue against that. But perhaps you should look to those who will give you that fame first. If they are all killed while you are entertaining yourself with fighting me, than you shall have no one to remember you,” Patroclus told him—almost scolded him, motioning to the sea of bodies left behind by the two armies which busied themselves with pulling back. “They all deserve more than that, surely. As do you, Achilles.”

“You speak to me like a prince,” Achilles told him with an odd half smile. “Are you sure the gods did not steal you from a palace at birth?”

“I am just a peasant, I can only speak my mind and do nothing more,” Patroclus promised him.

“That hardly matters when you are speaking to me,” Achilles said waving his confession off as if Patroclus could believe that. He breathed out, as if trying to steady his anger. Patroclus realized than how deeply he must have cut him, truly, with his words. “I shall think and pray upon what you have just said, Patroclus. This I swear to you.” 

And upon that note, they parted upon the battlefield yet again, and Patroclus limped back towards Troy.

* * *

Patroclus was met by a feast and ecstatic celebration when he returned to camp that nearly lit the entire city from within. Just as Patroclus had proved to Achilles, he had also proven to Troy that somehow it was not luck that he had survived Achilles. Apollo had favored Troy with a champion, and for that it was time to celebrate. He was kept up late by the noise, by the raucous celebration that clamored in his ears and bones every time he was congratulated or patted on the back or kissed upon the hand. 

By the time he fell asleep it was the witching hour. His dreams that night were thankfully and blissfully void of all the prophecy which had tormented him. However that did not mean that they were empty. Instead Patroclus was subject to flashes of green and gold, the weight of a sword in his hands, his father’s hot blood rushing out and painting his fingertips, all collided and smashed together with barely tangible threads of narrative in a confusing vision of chaos which left little room for rest. Patroclus, as he awoke scarcely awake, only dreamed of having the ability to lay in his bedroll for as long as he could before having to eat. 

However rest was apparently not what he would be given on his day off from war. 

Patroclus was nearly beside himself as he was brought to the palace by the royal guard fetched him from his tent a little time after lunch and paraded him through the city like an oddity. He walked upon his toes, trying not to make a sound, feeling that anything he touched would either be smudged or broken and he would never be able to repay it. He spoke to no one he knew, despite the fact that even seeing Paris would have given him some peace of mind. Servant girls led him to the baths and Patroclus stood upon the edge, flushed to the roots as the servant girls tried to get him to disrobe. He shook off their hands, gripping his threadbare robes tightly.

“My lord, we were asked to bathe you and prepare you for your audience with the royal family,” one of the girls told him, almost reminded him (not that he needed the reminder).

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” Patroclus argued barely above a whisper, his embarrassment singeing his ears with heat. “And I’m not a lord, please I…I wouldn’t want you to have to do that for me.”

The three girls burst into giggles that left Patroclus even more flustered and confused than he had been a moment before, as if they were playing a hopping-and-singing game rather than arguing over whether to bathe a man (though Patroclus could see how either of those could be very amusing to them).

“Do you think we haven’t bathed other men?” One of the girls asked him, dimples appearing in her cheek.

“It isn’t a matter of having bathed other men before,” Patroclus stuttered out before shaking his head.

“If you are so uncomfortable with it, we shall wait outside. Feel free to call us if you need help,” the other girl with the dark hair told him as she lay out fine robes for him. All three girls left, still giggling and bright with laughter at Patroclus’ expense as they left him alone in the expansive baths.

Patroclus did not waste his opportunity, despite his irrational fear that he could break something. He scrubbed himself clean of all the dirt and grime he had accumulated, feeling as if for the first time he could see his own dark skin. The bar of soap which had been left for him was used to thoroughly lather his hair and skin and left his fingertips smelling sweet. Finally Patroclus ducked under water, rinsing off completely before hopping out. He patted his skin dry with towels, feeling refreshed and renewed (and happy though the whole experience was ridiculous he had at least been given this). He rubbed his hardened heels with oil, and slipped on the robes which were fresh and light and beautifully woven. Finally he tied the knot of his sandals, wiggling his toes and marveling at the wonderful make. Surely just these clothes cost more than Patroclus would ever make in his whole life, could have fed his family for the rest of their lives.

Just how different was Achilles’ life from his own, Patroclus couldn’t help but think incredulously. Surely Achilles had grown up with these sorts of luxuries, or even greater ones. How in the name of the Gods did anyone live in this place or any place like it without feeling utterly small or too large?

On that mental note, he poked his head out of the baths. One of the girls met him with a gentle smile,

“Did you find everything you needed?”

“Yes,” Patroclus answered awkwardly.

“We will bring you to him now then, if you are ready.” 

“I doubt I’ll ever be,” Patroclus told her with a worried smile.

And so Patroclus was led into the grand hall of the palace of Troy, in order to meet King Priam.


	5. Time Out Of Joint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So because I’m such a dork, I totally couldn’t help but add a few literary references to this fic. But hey, I mean, when you are writing a character as meta as Cassandra I’m pretty sure that’s allowed. Thanks as always for the feedback on last chapter, and I hope you guys all enjoy some more Patrochilles interaction

The great King Priam sat in the hall of his palace, with only a few of his sons surrounding him. In the wars he had lost all but a handful, a most terrible sifting of chaff from wheat. This loss appeared to be a horrible weight upon his shoulders. (But all were with the blood of the gods flowing within them, and those left already had a song or two written of them, so their fame would certainly last longer than Patroclus’ own serendipitous rise.) His wife, Queen Hecuba, sat sallow and withdrawn her hands minding her own skirts. Hector and his wife Andromache sat beside him on one side, both welcoming if not formal, but this was Hector and his pious wife so their noble nature would forbid anything less. Finally, on the other side sat Paris looking as pleased as a well-fed cat however it was not Patroclus whom he was turned towards.

It was her, daughter of the Queen Leda and Zeus. She sat beside Paris, veiled and dressed in silk. She was spun from starlight and clouds and seemingly with little holding her together. Her hair the palest of gold, her skin an ethereal white which glowed as if lit from within, her eyes were rumored to be that of obsidian or the darkest night sky but behind that veil Patroclus could only imagine them. Even as the others looked towards him, Patroclus knew that it was she who lit their words and sent men to action. She was worth every prize, worth every war, given to Paris by the goddess Aphrodite herself who had anointed her with the title of the most beautiful woman in the world. Patroclus could feel her gaze singeing his skin with the same magic that Achilles had, as if she could see something within him that he did not know.

He could never want her, Patroclus realized immediately and was sobered. He could never love perfection in its entirety. He could not love this woman because of everything that she had caused unwillingly, but could feel great pity for her.

Patroclus kneeled, bowing his head deeply.

“Arise Patroclus, hero of Troy,” Priam’s voice was hoarse with age, and Patroclus did what he commanded. “You have met Achilles on the battlefield and have been deemed his equal, the god Apollo favors Troy and has sent you as hero to your King and your cause.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Patroclus said rather flatly.

“If you have a wish, I shall hear it now,” King Priam told him firmly. “If you have none, I would be happy to give you one of my daughters, you at least deserve to become one of my sons in recognition of your heroics.”

“No thank you, my king,” Patroclus told him simply.

A rumble of whispers came throughout the hall. All of the Kings and God-Children within attendance stared at him, perhaps not able to believe his nerve to reject the offer of marriage to one of Priam’s beautiful daughters and to become a prince. Patroclus felt his ears and cheeks burn, and Helen’s gaze still hidden but focused on him.

“Why is that?” Priam asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

“After the war I shall return to the farmlands of my birth, I would not wish to subject a princess to the life of a farmer’s wife or else the gods might be angry at me,” Patroclus said as he awkwardly as he shifted between his feet. Paris’ laughter burst out from his lips and he did not hide it as he pounded his hand into his throne.

“Patroclus is too pious for life, dear father,” Paris laughed and continued to laugh like a rising swell of sea. “He would have you give him a donkey and a cart if you would abide it.”

“Patroclus was chosen by the God Apollo because he is pious,” Hector reminded his brother with a sharp look that settled across his proud features, which dampened Paris’ fun significantly.

“Then what would you have, Patroclus?” King Priam asked him seriously.

“I ask for nothing but perhaps more supplies for my fellow soldiers,” Patroclus told him. “There is nothing more I wish for, and nothing more I require.”

“Very well, if that if your wish,” King Priam said quietly. “Then upon that note, let us begin the feast.” 

The feast was loud and merry, but the food tasted of ash upon his lips and Patroclus derived no pleasure from the company. At some point during the revelry Patroclus made up his mind to slip away, feeling Helen’s gaze still sharp upon his skin and metallic within his mouth. He found a small marble balcony, and took a few moments to gather his thoughts. He watched as Troy continued to celebrate beneath the grand palace’s walls. He was washed by moonlight, the cool breeze soothing the edges inside of him that the presence of the nobles had torn open.

He wondered, vaguely and perhaps strangely, what Achilles was doing in that moment. Was he bathing in the sea, having his wounds healed by his mother’s vicious touch, was he thinking of what Patroclus had told him? Patroclus hoped it was the last. He wondered if Achilles also thought this war was ridiculous, but Patroclus was sure that as long as the battle gave him glory Achilles would not mind. Or maybe he did. Patroclus didn’t know, and he wanted to know, even if he shouldn’t. He wanted to know the person that he faced, so he could truly be more of a person, for Patroclus was tired of simply facing a faceless enemy for a cause he didn’t believe in.

Footsteps behind him paused and made Patroclus turn. It was a girl, standing in the entrance of the balcony. If Helen was made of starlight, she was crafted from the earth. Her hair was dark and curled against her skin which had healthy color from the sun. Her eyes were brown, and settled within a face that seemed to tend towards wistfulness in the lips and thoughtfulness in the crease of her brow and dark circles beneath her eyes. A princess around his age, from the silver circlet resting amongst the curls of her head, but with the forgetfulness of her wrinkled dress and her shoeless feet, he wondered if she had just awoken from an ill-begotten dream. 

“Forgive me, I did not know this was someone else’s spot,” Patroclus apologized to the princess hastily. The princess blinked as if only seeing him then, before a look of concern overtook her and suddenly she jumped back as if bitten.

“You are…what are you doing here?” She asked of him her voice rough from lack of use, her eyes darting around as if trying to catch something.

“King Priam invited me here,” Patroclus tried to calm her, this only seemed to confuse the girl further.

“King Priam invited Patroclus, son of Menoetius to his hall?” Cassandra asked in disbelief before suddenly focusing once again on him, taking a deep breath. “I…I see. That is…that is how it is.”

“How do you know my father’s name?” Patroclus asked her in surprise. “Who are you?”

“I’m Cassandra,” the princess introduced, her back rigid and not moving to curtsy or bow her head, and her eyes were unreadable. “You met Apollo, did you not?”

“In a dream, yes,” Patroclus said, still confused at the movement of the conversation.

“How did he appear to you?” Cassandra demanded of him. “What were his looks? His manner?”

“He was dark, eyes black and flitted with gold, his hair like amber. He spoke arrogantly but purposefully,” Patroclus reported and Cassandra’s eyes softened as she hugged herself tightly.

“Not so differently then,” Cassandra said quietly.

“From what?” Patroclus asked her.

“Do you not know me?” Cassandra asked the bitterness of her voice making Patroclus jump. “I, Cassandra, the mad daughter of Priam?”

“Mad?”

“He cursed me for rejecting him, that god who blessed you,” Cassandra explained walking over to grasp the balcony. “And now no one will believe me.” 

“As he cursed me to be killed by Achilles,” Patroclus told her, trying to cam her. “And I believe you.”

“Perhaps because you are under the influence of Apollo,” Cassandra said quietly and more to herself than him. “Perhaps. Then listen to me now, Patroclus. Troy is lost, what you do now only prolongs the end.”

“Lost? How?” Patroclus asked in shock.

“A horse and a grand trick,” Cassandra said emptily as the consonants scrapped against her teeth, and Patroclus could understand why that sounded so unbelievable. After all, how could a horse defeat Troy? But he had the feeling that it was almost too ridiculous not to believe. “Go home, Patroclus, if you fight you will die. Achilles will be killed after slaughtering Hector.”

“Why?” Patroclus demanded of her. “What will Hector do to Achilles?”

Cassandra just looked at him as if the answer was obvious.

“Hector will do that which Achilles fears the most,” Cassandra told him blankly

“What is that?”

“This world is wrong, Patroclus, and you are the cause of the oddity,” Cassandra said, her voice raised and trembling. “I can see it, I know it. No, no you are not the cause of the difference, you are just the most visible symptom. It’s been changed—do you not feel that it has been changed? The time— _the time is out of joint._ The center of this world will not hold. But it does not matter, some things will always remain the same. Troy will fall, Achilles will die. Escape your fate, Patroclus. Escape it if it is at all possible.”

“What has been changed, Cassandra?” Patroclus begged of her. “What?”

Cassandra looked at him as if she was looking through him, in that moment she could have been blown away by the wind that shuddered through Troy.

“Did you ever truly believe you were just a poor farm boy?”

Patroclus fled.

* * *

He ran until he had run out of the city, he gasped as he collapsed by the river. The earth soft beneath his knees as he wheezed from lungs which burned and seized from his effort. He reached, allowing the water to pool in his hands, before desperately splashing his face in an attempt to calm himself.

“…Patroclus?” Achilles’ voice made Patroclus gasped and become unsteady. A warm hand reached out to grasp him to keep him from falling into the river, the fingers curled around his wrist sending heat rushing through him. His hands were a man’s, Patroclus thought and the sensation sent wildness to bite hard at his insides. Achilles’ eyes were wide and alarmed and Patroclus’ jaw slightly unhinged, and they both stared at each other. The moment broke as soon as Achilles let go.

“Why are you here?” Patroclus nearly hissed out of pure concern. 

“I heard someone call my name, was it not you?” Achilles asked sounding just as confused as he.

“Call your name? Why would I…?” Patroclus tried to ask him. Achilles’ face twisted in a form of embarrassment.

“The gods play a trick on us,” Achilles sighed heavily, there was no sharpness like on the battlefield. He was still, as stillness was a part of him, but in the moonlight which traced his features he seemed at one with the calmness. “Perhaps it is within their thoughts to have us dual.”

“Now?” Patroclus squeaked, before staring as Achilles sat down beside him and folded his legs like a boy. He rummaged around within his pack for something, seemingly not understanding Patroclus’ alarm. 

“Why would I duel you with no one there to see it?” Achilles asked of him as if it where the most obvious thing.

“Because you wish to kill me?” Patroclus offered and Achilles made a face of displeasure.

“I do not wish to kill you, I wish to fight you until I beat you completely and you are begging for mercy and all others proclaim I am the greatest warrior who ever lived; there is a difference,” Achilles scoffed as if what Patroclus said was insulting. “If you die in the process that is not my fault.”

“In your case there is hardly a difference,” Patroclus laughed suddenly and brightly, startling himself and Achilles. “What kind of logic are you using? Haven’t you noticed that the people you fight usually end up dead?”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. You are not dead yet,” Achilles chuckled before pulling out something which he tossed to Patroclus, his smile refracted the moonlight in a spectacular display. “Eat, you look like you’ve got one foot in the Styx.”

Patroclus woodenly brought the thing to his lips before blinking as the sweetness of a fig brought life back into him. Fruit, he thought as an odd smile stretched across his lips. How long had it been? He had been sustained on bread, water, and thin vegetable soup for so long that he had forgotten what fruit tasted like. Achilles looked satisfied, as if Patroclus eating was pleasing to him.

“Why do you have these?”

“I have a girl named Briseis, she packs them for me no matter where I go,” Achilles said with a shrug, the girl’s name came with no tenderness but instead was a matter-of-fact. Patroclus felt himself bristle at the presumption there, but decided to leave it be and answer the question that was obviously on Achilles’ mind.

“I was told something strange today,” Patroclus explained quietly. “It frightened me, so I ran away.”

“You were frightened?” Achilles asked, brows drawn together. “I did not think you could be frightened.”

“Why would you think that? I’m scared all the time,” Patroclus’ voice was half-dipped in humor and half-baked in its anxiety. 

“By what?”

“You scare me,” Patroclus said, “I scare myself, the Gods scare me, how time moves scares me, everything scares me. I feel as if my life is a game—”

“—and you are not the one playing it?” Achilles finished his sentence. He grasped a rock and skipped it across the river almost petulantly, looking blank and cold again and his voice came out hard. “I know how that is.” 

Achilles met Patroclus’ eyes, and Patroclus felt his skin grow warm under Achilles’ considering gaze. He softened once more, tossing figs in one hand in an absent juggle.

“I thought about what you told me,” Achilles told him. “My mother certainly wouldn’t agree, but I believe you have a point. Kindness does not come easy to me, I thought I didn’t need anyone but myself, I never had this feeling until I—“

“Until I met you?” Patroclus finished in return. “Everything has changed for me when I met you as well. I think I forgot how to feel.”

They were both silent for a long moment, the breeze off the river Scamander cool against Patroclus’ skin. Patroclus was frightened at how natural it felt, to be sitting next to Achilles like this. The words of Cassandra still haunting his mind, _Did you ever truly believe you were just a poor farm boy?_ What if he hadn’t been? If he hadn’t been just a poor farm boy but instead a prince like Achilles suggested, what would their relation be? Patroclus had no answer.

“I must go,” Achilles said softly. “I mustn’t linger or else I might get caught.”

“I see,” Patroclus murmured quietly.

Suddenly Achilles reached out to him, his fingers paused just before reaching his cheek. He waited, as if expecting a rebuff, but Patroclus had nothing for him. Instead Achilles branded Patroclus with his touch, smoothing over his cheek, curling in his hair, pressing their foreheads together like conspirator boys playing war games. It felt so natural, so good. His eyes devoured everything, his breath was sweet with figs, and Patroclus realized if he just moved a just a little closer…

“On the battlefield tomorrow we will fight once more,” Achilles said firmly, the intensity of his eyes burrowing deep into Patroclus’ chest.

“We will,” Patroclus agreed breathlessly, his skin prickling his body on edge.

“Fight me with everything you have,” Achilles told him. “The honor is mine.”

And like that Achilles left his feet carrying him across the wide plain. With the taste of figs on his lips, the ghost of Achilles’ hand upon his cheek, and Cassandra’s word on his mind Patroclus stumbled back into camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra's Meta:
> 
> "Let us go in together,  
> And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.  
> The time is out of joint. O cursèd spite,  
> That ever I was born to set it right!"  
> -William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_ , Act 1 Scene 5
> 
> "Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
> The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
> The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
> The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
> Are full of passionate intensity."  
> \- William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"


	6. The Forbidden Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate+Love+Desire= Feels is my favorite equation
> 
> I’m going to be gone all weekend, so I worked hard to get this chapter up early so that everyone could enjoy it. And here it is! Who said that only Patroclus could have extended dream sequences or that only Apollo feels like he has a stake in Patrochilles? ;)

“You will either live to an old age, but live an uneventful life. Or you will live a glorious life, but be cut down young,” Achilles’ father had explained to Achilles quietly. King Peleus was old and tired, his voice rose worn and full and drifted like the yew-smoke of the throne room. But Achilles liked that dreamlike quality of his father’s voice, enjoyed how it could make even taxes sound like lullabies and turn scolding into compliments. “That was the prophecy, Achilles. Which you choose will be your choice, and those two fates will forever be your fates.”

“There is no choice,” Achilles told his father resolutely, his chin jutted forward as he looked at the empty hall before them. All Achilles could see was the possibility. “There is only glory.”

 _Glory._ It was the promise his mother had whispered into his skin as she had rubbed the oil of sandalwood and pomegranate upon his heels, the prophecy that blazed in the stars every night that were formed by the heroes of legends, it was the air he breathed in the halls that felt too small to fit his promise, it was all the could fill the empty place inside of him that grew and grew and grew with almost every moment.

There was nothing else for him in that place. He walked through the halls as if he were caught in a still waking dream, he practiced and practiced but found no solace, in the boys who laughed and clung to his shadow there was no companionship. His father told him to take a therapon, a brother-in-arms, if only to sooth his worry, but there was no one Achilles wished to keep with him. Their faces blended together, their voices echoed distantly but almost never reached him. Achilles could not lie, he promised himself he would never and would have no need to. And so Achilles remained alone, because he was above of it all. That much had been made obvious to him.

When he was with Chiron, it was much easier to bear. After all, the relationship between teacher and student was much easier for Achilles to grasp a hold of and make into his own. Chiron was a wise and patient teacher, and Achilles was an eager student. After all, Chiron had been the great teacher of Hercules and Perseus, both equally worthy heroes who Achilles strove to overtake. Chiron taught in aptly chosen moments, the skills of the forest, the way to creep within the shadows in order to never be seen, where organs and bones were lodged within the body, how to trace the constellations in order to navigate one’s way home. Achilles occupied himself in his lessons, in absorbing all that he could from the master who had so much to give him. He was not bothered by the emptiness within him in that time, for he had no one to miss, nothing to yearn for, and everything to take in as his own. Achilles was sharpened, and then it was time for him to be used and he welcomed it.

When the messengers came for him after his sixteenth birthday, Chiron stood, his eyes dark and knowing as Achilles packed his things.

“Achilles,” Chiron called to him, “you should consider your answer, of what you will do when men wish for you to fight.”

“I will fight for myself,” Achilles told him honestly. “For glory.”

Chiron reached and patted his shoulder, and then Achilles left.

* * *

He was there in Achilles’ dreams. He stood a stark figure upon an empty battlefield that shifted with the wind and the darkness. It did not matter to Achilles that there was no army with him, after all, there was no one in the Trojan army that Achilles wished to see other than him. 

The boy on the battlefield. The boy who had desperately fended off his advances. He dared to stand in front of him once more, and Achilles could not stop himself from smiling. The boy had emerged from the chaos, and then melted back like mist in the new day. But he had come again to battle as purposefully as the sun drove across the sky. In Achilles’ dreams they danced the dance of their fight every night, and Achilles felt raw joy. But that night, instead of being as quiet as a shade, the boy spoke. 

“You are the prince,” the boy had snapped at Achilles with anger, and it gave Achilles pause in his sword swing. Anger at him? Why him? The voice was clear. There was something warm about that voice, something quiet, deep, thoughtful, and absolutely terrified. Achilles hadn’t been expecting a boy’s voice so it took him slightly off guard. He had known gods, and he had known kings. Achilles had come to assume that only they would stand before him. But there this boy was, desperately skirting around as shadows licked his heels and Achilles matched his steps. His helmet was slightly too large, a bow and quiver slung behind him. His hands and arms were dark from the sun, his shoulders wide despite his gauntness which was so common of the farmer’s sons he had so often culled. Curiosity at this new marvel was devouring him. It tasted strange, it felt odd. Achilles’ whole body was wound tightly, as if he stood on the edge of something marvelous. 

“You are the reason I cannot go home.”

The words had come bitter and aching with such profound loss that it made his skin prickle. Home? Achilles wanted to ask, laugh. Why go home with nothing when you could return with everything? What was there awaiting this boy that took his thoughts away from this moment? Wasn’t there enough in this moment to fulfil him and Achilles for all eternity?

“I’m Patroclus,” the boy had introduced.

_Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus._

He was a prayer answered, Achilles had realized as he had been suffused with joy in the heat of battle. Pain burst across his skin as a fire spluttering to life, his blood was coppery-sweet within his mouth, slick as it traced his cheek and made him shiver as if struck by fever. His muscles pulled in their effort, his heart beat ecstatically in his chest, his breath to the rhythm of the cadence of the name, his thoughts raced as again and again Patroclus threw him off balance with his unexpected moves. Glory was here, coursing through the boy’s veins, the wellspring which held everything Achilles had ever desired, all that could fill the wretched emptiness within him, and all Achilles had to do was kill him and take it—

“What made you this way?” Patroclus asked him, dark eyes burning through him and reducing him to ash, to nothingness. All of his ambitions were suddenly nothing, mountains blew away in the wind, the sea turned to ash, the sky crumbled and fell through. “What made you like this?”

Why? Achilles had screamed but suddenly found he could not because his dream was slipping away. Why do you look at me in that way? Why do you look at me as if you pity me? Why do you look at me with eyes so sad? I am Achilles, I am the Best of the Greeks. Why do you look at me as if I am not good enough? As if I disappoint you? Tell me why? Why am I this way? Why am I so—

 _Oh, you are truly nothing more than a child._ The voice was feminine and sweeter than honey and morning dew, it cloyingly seeped into his mind, swirled around the edges like seafoam. It was a guest unwanted, but Achilles could not shake the presence off.

Who? Achilles struggled against the tide, against the current of his dreams but they dragged him along. He fought but it was everywhere that saccharine sweetness was aiming to drown him, Achilles searched for something to fight with but there was nothing.

_That silly mother of yours kept you from the pleasures of this world, believing they would rust the blade known as you. But she should know that everyone is susceptible to that which I covet and rule over._

And what is that?

_Desire._

As if the word had been breathed, and breath swept his dreams clean, suddenly Achilles was lying in bed. But he was not alone. His cry turned into a gasp, his resistance turned to weak shudders, as warm, smooth fingers trailed up his chest, a tender mouth pressed to his belly and slid up, lips minding the hollow of his neck as their hips pressed flush—

The shock of the sensation awoke Achilles, with his muscles reacting on training and instinct, he grabbed the assailant and forced him underneath Achilles. There was Patroclus, looking at him so gently. Gentleness suited Patroclus’ features so much more than the bitterness he had come to know. It softened his lips into a smile, filled his eyes deeply as an overflowing cup, and warmed his skin. Even as Achilles clenched his hands around Patroclus’ throat, there was no resistance. Instead Patroclus disarmed Achilles with his sweet look, the one that told Achilles that he was a treasure and not a weapon, and suddenly Achilles had no strength or desire to squeeze.

“I will kill you,” Achilles tried to promise but there was no conviction. All he could see was Patroclus’ eyes, all he could feel was the skin as smooth as silk beneath his fingertips, the glorious way his body felt pressed underneath Achilles.

“Achilles,” Patroclus sighed his name and it made Achilles tremble, Patroclus’ eyes saddened but lost no gentleness. Patroclus reached to cup his cheek, just as Achilles had done to him upon the riverbank. _I think I forgot how to feel_ , had been Patroclus’ confession then. Had Achilles ever learned in the first place? He wasn’t sure. But he knew Patroclus had been right, everything had changed. For better or for worse, Achilles could not yet tell.

“What have you done to me?” Achilles whispered. He should have been breaking his neck, tearing open his skin, doing something, anything. He knew what he should have been doing, but Achilles also knew that was the last thing he wanted.

“Achilles, you don’t have to be lonely anymore,” Patroclus promised him, his eyes flaying Achilles open and seeing deep into his depths, laying him utterly bare. That was Patroclus’ uncanny ability, what Achilles now knew him for. Patroclus could always see through him to the places where Achilles did not tread lightly. 

“Lonely?” Achilles asked, his throat feeling raw. 

Had he been lonely? The void within him that devoured all, the wellspring from which sprung his distinction. Had that been loneliness? The endless faces which blurred together in a meaningless menagerie of color and voice, the blackness of his mother’s eyes and the blankness of her expression when she dove into the sea, the solemnness of his father as Achilles refused again and again all the men called before him, the echo of the empty cave at night with only tasks to fill it, the scent of arid plain and stickiness of blood against his fingers, had that all been loneliness? He had been told he was alone because he was superior, but when he had met Patroclus suddenly he had come to know that he was not. Yes, Achilles suddenly came to understand. He had been lonely.

“We can be together,” Patroclus promised, his fingers tracing Achilles’ lips. They parted for his touch, and Achilles trembled as they moved to trace his chin. “For as long as you would have me.”

“I…I do not want you, I do not want anyone,” Achilles tried to argue, but his resolve for the first time in his life felt flimsy. He tried to remember his distinct lack of desire for the serving girls who had haunted doorways, for his faint disgust at the grunts from shadowed corners, but that felt so different than this, whatever this was. “She said—my mother says it’s all a distraction. I have to…I have to defeat you, if I do that then…”

“If you defeat me, then I will not be able to come to you anymore,” Patroclus told him, thumbing his collarbones, mapping him completely.

“No,” Achilles snapped immediately. Not being able to see Patroclus, not being able to fight against Patroclus anymore, those things were unacceptable now. He couldn’t return, not anymore. He had tasted of the forbidden fruit and now the way fighting used to be was abhorrent to him. The detached dispatching of nameless soldiers, the endless slog, the boredom which made his ears ring, Achilles would no longer stand it. It had to be Patroclus, there only was Patroclus.

“Then what will you do?” Patroclus asked him without judgement or hatred—without bitterness? Had his fingers been so smooth? Had his iris bled into pupil…?

“I have never been denied that which I want,” Achilles told him firmly, suddenly the fog in his head was clearing. There was something wrong, Achilles recognized. 

“What do you want, Achilles?” Patroclus’ voice asked, but now Achilles was awake.

Achilles began to squeeze, the creature beneath him clawed at his arms but there was no mercy for him to give nor did Achilles feel pain.

“Get out of my mind,” Achilles growled as the creature wearing Patroclus’ face squirmed turning pale and ashen. Achilles’ lips turned into a snarl, anger flooded through him and filled him with clarity. “Who are you? How dare you come to me wearing his face?! Get out—“

The dream ceased and gave way to reality. Achilles shot up in his bedroll soaked in a cold sweat. His head was pounding, and his vision was swimming from the suddenness of the action. Briseis, the girl he had taken as a servant stirred and immediately sat up, her dark eyes full of concern. Achilles liked Briseis well enough, liked her earth-dark eyes and her heart-shaped face. But she was more of a presence than a person on most days.

“Prince Achilles? What’s wrong?” Briseis asked in her lilting accented Grecian. 

“Get me water,” Achilles commanded of her, pressing his fingertips into his forehead. He looked up and squinted out the tent, looking at the storm brewing along the horizon. “Quickly, I need to speak with my mother before it storms.”


	7. The Third Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol yeah so part of the reason for this chapter was the reference to the movie Troy. I mean, obviously when doing a canon-divergent fic I need to take the time to recast one of my favorite action sequences in a new light. That’s just what I’m here for. OH and technically it’s still Sunday so I made my updating schedule on time by like an hour and a half. Hell yeah.

The sky cracked open like an egg and released floods of rain over Troy. After three days of putting off battle and the delay of the Lycians, the armies of Troy stirred with a fever of impatience. Patroclus supposed it was only natural, after all, in the deepest root of his soul he wished to return home and make himself believe that he had not spent a day away. The rain only worsened the feeling. After all with mud sticking to his toes, cold clinging to his bones, the air blanketed in thick grey mist, and the unending pattering of rain the not so distant sounds of battle seemed to echo in his ears. 

On the fourth day when the floodrains calmed to a dreary drizzle, and the princes commanded that day would be a one-on-one fight with a Greek Warrior and a Trojan Warrior. Patroclus put on his armor feeling a sickening pit in his stomach grow. However his fears were not realized as Hector stood outside of his tent, stroking his dark beard with dark fingers. His eyes were nearly unreadable, but the grim tautness of his shoulders communicated the worst.

“You will be staying behind with the bowmen in the line,” Hector told him firmly as Patroclus left the tent. Patroclus stared at him unabashedly. Staying behind? How could he be sent to stay behind once more? It didn’t make any reasonable sense.

“But they will send Achilles,” Patroclus argued, remembering Achilles’ knife-edge grin and flashing eyes, the promise which had fallen from his lips with his face traced by moonlight, his fingertips which were scented by river water and had made him tremble. Patroclus had barely managed to withstand those things, and he was gifted by a God. Sending anyone else against Achilles was almost incomprehensible. “You will be sending another warrior to die in my stead.”

“That they probably will,” Hector said solemnly.

“And you will not send me instead?” Patroclus demanded of him.

“No I will not.”

“Why in the name of all the Gods wouldn’t you?!” Patroclus gasped, resisting the urge to stomp his feet on the ground like a tired throwing a tantrum. Hector just looked at him tiredly, as if all of his concerns were ridiculous.

“Because you are too important to just let Achilles slaughter you,” Hector said with a conviction which made Patroclus feel as small and childish as he probably looked in comparison to Hector. “The Trojans see you in them, they fight because they know you can. If you are to die, you will not do it like this. If you die in this way, Achilles’ attention will diverted back to the places that might ruin us. Lord Apollo gave you to us, we will not waste you like this.”

“What am I to you?” Patroclus said incredulously, rocking back on his heels. “What is this war to you? To any of you?”

“You are a Trojan, and you are compelled to protect the honor of our people,” Hector said formally and it made Patroclus burn in indignation.

“Well, when any of you actually understand the concept of honor and wish to speak with me about it, I’ll be hiding with the bowmen and watching Achilles eat another man alive. And if any of you wonder what you could have done to actually protect the honor of Troy I will be right where you put me, son of Priam,” Patroclus snapped at him, fisting his hands and then turning on his heal. “I may be a farmer’s son, but I at least understand that much.” 

Patroclus stormed away, his eyes squinting into the mist of rain while Hector’s and many other’s gazes followed him.

* * *

The armies stood in silence facing each other at the plains. The sky had lightened, sunlight breaking through dappled clouds and into ethereal ribbons that dried the mist. The Kings of Greece stood in a somber line, as suddenly the Greeks burst into an endless cheer of, “Achilles, Achilles!” They said his name like it was being offered to the sky, as if by preaching Achilles’ glory they too would be exalted. The sea of Grecian soldiers parted for him effortlessly as if doing so was utterly engrained, and so Achilles stood awaiting his match golden and proud.

Boagrius, one of the most accomplished Thessalians, stepped forward. His shoulders rippled with thick bands of muscle in the sun like an ox, and he held two spears with a sword at his side and a shield at his back. He roared, and the rest of the Trojans roared with him. However Achilles was unimpressed, and he turned towards Paris with a jut of his chin.

“Where is Patroclus?” He demanded, and Patroclus felt himself nearly jump out of his skin. A rumbling of whispers came throughout the army, and Patroclus felt eyes turn upon him and his own cheeks heat up with shame. 

“Can we not amuse you, Prince Achilles, with any other?” Paris answered him with a scoff and an arrogant stride, while others shrunk from Achilles’ obvious displeasure. “We have many other champions who are willing to fight, and many more who wish to prove themselves against you in combat.” 

“If you are so sure of that, why have I not met many in battle?” Achilles called out with a musical laugh which rang like spring birdsong and warm summer rain, but there was an edge there flitting along the edges. “None of you can even touch me. Give me Patroclus, so I can actually have a fight.”

“Patroclus is hardly a fighter, and you know as well as I that he cannot be called a warrior,” Paris taunted and Patroclus felt his breath rush hard against his lungs and ring in his ears, because the darkness which boiled under Achilles’ skin was thick upon the air. “The only reason he has survived is because he knows how to dodge your sword like a good foot soldier. In that and archery he is exemplary. But I suppose this means that Achilles the Best of the Greeks has lost his edge in hand to hand.”

“You, common wife-stealer, are in no position to explain who or what a warrior is supposed to be,” Achilles said as sharp, harsh, and humorless as snowy mountain peaks. “But fine, I will kill this disgrace you drag before me to make an example of what I will do to you when I get my hands on you for insulting me. Who knows, perhaps a Trojan bitch managed to breed an actual man for me to fight while you lay in your stinking city.”

“Achilles!” One of the Grecian Kings called his name roughly and angrily, he was solid and broad and had a nose like an eagle’s beak and red hair streaked with grey. Patroclus recognized him as Agamemnon, great King and brother of Menelaus who was the rightful husband of Helen. “Hold your tongue if you only will use it to deride the situation.”

“Would you like to come up here and fight in my stead then?” Achilles snapped at him aggressively.

One of the kings ran to Achilles, for a few moments they spoke quietly, before Achilles stabbed his spear into the ground and began to run forward to meet Boagrius.

The fight was over almost ridiculously quick. If dark humor was to Patroclus’ liking, he most likely would have laughed. Boagrius lobbed his first spear, which Achilles easily deflected before losing his shield. He sped, flying against the rain hardened plain as his sudden speed allowed him to duck easily beneath the spear that Boagrius threw next. And then Achilles leaped, stabbing Boagrius through the back before landing as seamlessly as a wild cat. 

“Well,” Achilles announced as he swung his sword and painted an arc of red blood against the sand. “I see that I have not lost my edge, have I? Is there no one else who would stand against me? Is there no one else?”

The silence which hung to the field seemingly answered him, and Patroclus felt arms grab his own and clamp their nails into him. He stared, he hadn’t even been aware that he had moved forward to answer Achilles’ call but apparently he had. But by meeting the pale and wide-eyed looks of the fellow archers Patroclus suddenly understood that he hadn’t been the only one told to keep Patroclus in the furthest back line. Hector had seemingly planned for his possible insubordination, and that simple fact made Patroclus flush with both shame and anger. 

“Very well,” Achilles said angrily, scanning the lines of Trojan but seemingly seeing nothing that he wanted.

As he walked back the Grecians again burst into triumph cries of his name, gleaming gold in the sunlight and his righteous anger, Patroclus swore he could feel his blood turn cold.

* * *

Patroclus had been sleeping, that he had been sure about. Dreams more like figments, Achilles and his vicious grin, blood splattering on the sands, the ocean boiling and filling his ears, fingers tracing over his throat and turning to iron. _Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus,_ his name whispered until it was nothing but sound and making desire lick at his insides. He awoke to find himself walking in a daze, as if possessed by a spirit of air. He nearly stumbled down the riverbed, but forced himself to sit down before sliding into the dark water. Sickness was forcing itself up from within him, his teeth chattered and his skin felt burned by the cold. He sat with his head between his knees and tried to regain his sense.

A sound behind him made him jerk his head. Achilles stood, his face full of concern as he closed the space between them with a few purposeful strides. His hand pressed against his forehead, as if looking for fever, but the moment his fingers touched him Patroclus felt that familiar branding of heat.

“I thought that the reason you didn’t fight was because you were hurt,” Achilles admitted honestly. “Was it because you have fallen ill?” 

“No, Hector and Paris just do not want me dying when it is inconvenient to them,” Patroclus explained with an empty chuckle. 

“Ha! Funny, it is the same with me, Agamemnon, and Odysseus. The only reason they let me call myself forward is because no one can kill me,” Achilles said with the sincere arrogance which so often informed all he did.

“Except it is said you will die after you kill Hector,” Patroclus pointed out to him, and Achilles’ face twisted in annoyance.

“I am not a fool, and I do not wish to die. So yes, I am aware that is what was said. And so I have decided I won’t kill Hector, it is that simple,” Achilles said with a childish shrug. 

“Do really you really believe that fate is so easy to cast off?” Patroclus couldn’t help but challenge indignantly.

“I have never lost to anything before,” Achilles answered bluntly, giving Patroclus a side-long gaze that made him prickle for a reason he didn’t know. “And I have no quarrel with Hector. Why should I kill him when I have no quarrel?”

“So you say, but the Fates say otherwise,” Patroclus pointed out before challenging Achilles once more, “and you kill many people who you have no quarrel with. So what you say doesn’t match your actions.”

“My quarrel with Trojans is the same quarrel that Menelaus has with Paris,” Achilles dismissed with a wave. “And if I say so, it is truth. I do not lie.”

“You cannot fight your way out of everything,” Patroclus said mournfully as he slumped down further.

“Of course you can, you can never win against anything if you do not fight,” Achilles responded without a moment of hesitation.

“You can try, but I am not sure you can always succeed,” Patroclus said slowly. “It is impossible to always win, Achilles. You will drive yourself insane if you think that way.”

“If I try I will always succeed,” Achilles sounded oddly flustered, as if the idea of not always conquering, of the possibility of failure, was extremely confounding to him. He was becoming frustrated, Patroclus was able to see it in the way his jaw jutted and the way he clenched and unclenched his hands. And yet, there was something so satisfying about seeing the Achilles beneath the carefully sculpted façade that Patroclus wished to push him further even if that was foolhardy.

“Just because you have never failed before does not mean you will always succeed in the future—“

Achilles was suddenly looking at him, and Patroclus’ words died in his throat. It was the way he was looking which stilled him. It was not the blank and unseeing look he gave to the soldiers, it was not the raw anger which was barely held beneath his skin, it was something other. It was as if all of his attention was solely focused on Patroclus, preparing for the pounce or the strike, which ever would come first.

“Why do you care?” The question was open and honest and innocent and nearly sacred. “I trust you, but I do not know why. Why, Patroclus? Why is it you?”

“I don’t know,” Patroclus told him.

“When you were not there to meet me, I think I was afraid,” Achilles said bluntly more than confessed, but it was a confession all the same. “I felt sick, I was angry that they kept you from me and insulted me by keeping you from me. I killed the warrior but I took no pleasure from it, all I thought about was you. Is that fear, Patroclus? Was I afraid?”

“I think you were,” Patroclus said dumbly, as Achilles reached out to trace his jaw.

“That is the third thing you have taught me against my mother’s wishes,” Achilles said quietly, as if afraid to break some unbidden spell. “And I am glad for it.”

“Third thing?” Patroclus whispered, Achilles’ face was so close to his. His breath sweet, the sensation of touch almost too much for him to bear. Patroclus was coming undone at the seams.

“I wish for things now, and I never wished for anything but glory,” Achilles said softly. “I wish for the impossible, and if I do not try to gain them I fear I will be lost. But if I do gain them, I am afraid everything will be lost.”

“There has to be a third way,” Patroclus said with conviction, Achilles’ meadow green gaze meeting his. “There is always another way.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles said his name like the answer.

Patroclus didn’t know which one of them moved forward, but one of them closed the space in between them.


	8. Untamable Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this fanfic is becoming a test of how many Gods I can squeeze into one fanfiction feasibly (at the moment I think we’re at four), and how many meta moments (with the Iliad Reference and the whole second scene we’re at like five). Also I’m just saying every time I think I’m over Patrochilles it just keeps sucker punching me with the feels. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Patroclus had gone mad, he was sure of it. Achilles’ lips were hot and adamant on his, the tang of figs and sweetness of honey made Patroclus shudder as their tongues met for a blissful moment. This kiss was hurried, it was desperate, and it was so good. His thoughts scattered into the wind and every moment he tried to grasp them the more frayed and abstract they became as Achilles drew all of Patroclus’ attention back to wear their lips met with a gasping breath or scrape of teeth. The emptiness of his mind was so delicious that Patroclus just wanted to continue to drink from this bliss for as long as he could. Patroclus wanted to open himself more, let Achilles in deeper so they could become one, he was nothing, he was, he was kissing Achilles—

Patroclus, suddenly besieged with the need for breath and trying to gather up any truth he had left in his body, Patroclus tore his mouth away from Achilles’ despite everything within him begging Patroclus to continue. Achilles had draped himself on Patroclus, driving against him with barely held back desire and making Patroclus gasp as pleasure made him nearly jump out of his skin. There was suddenly frightening clarity as Achilles’ mouth traced his neck and burned him, the enormity of what was happening hitting him in tides that came in and out.

“Patroclus,” Achilles nearly cried, his eyes were dark and half-mad as a forest shadowed in night as a gasp of pleasure was drawn from his mouth as he rolled his hips against Patroclus. It sounded so good that suddenly Patroclus was at a complete lost.

“What—what are you doing—?” Patroclus stuttered before arching into Achilles’ fingers as the traced down his belly, mapping him desperately as if this might be the last chance he could. He felt woozy, the sky above him seemingly moved and pulsed with his fluttering heart.

“Please Patroclus,” Achilles pleaded, his desperation cracking his voice so lovely. The words that came out were in a half-conceived jumble, punctuated by Achilles kissing Patroclus’ chest. Patroclus could tell from the way Achilles trembled that this was as terrifying for him as it was for Patroclus. “Stay with me, want me. Every night I’ve been possessed by this need, and now I only think of you. I want you by my side, you were meant to be by my side!”

“Stop, please stop,” Patroclus whispered, using all of his remaining strength to his face away as the breeze off the river cooled his skin that felt dipped into the Phlegethon. 

Suddenly Achilles’ weight was gone, as was his kissing mouth, and his desperate fingers. He was crouched like a child, his face twisted into a sort of grief that made Patroclus ache. Patroclus sat up slowly, his skin still tingling with Achilles’ touch. For a moment they both stared at each other, neither one knowing how to address anything that had happened. But finally Achilles sat down properly like he was trying to coax a wild creature, crossing his legs and looking at him mournfully.

“I know you hate me, but could you not learn to love me too?” Achilles asked so brokenly, not bothering brushing away the golden curls which had been released from his tie. His tone was so pitiable that Patroclus wished to gather him in his arms and never let go. “I would learn. I would give anything to learn, and you could teach me like you have taught me so many things.”

“I don’t hate you Achilles,” Patroclus promised him. “It’s the Gods, Achilles. They manipulated both of us. I—“

“That’s what Gods do,” Achilles said back emptily. “That’s what everyone but you does. That’s why I need you by my side. Don’t make me live without you. Don’t make me live like I did before, Patroclus. I can’t bear it anymore.”

“I don’t know if the Gods will let us live at all,” Patroclus croaked out of fear. “Isn’t that why they set us up like this? It was so that we could tear each other apart, so that I could make you weak and get you killed.”

“I’m not scared of death nor am I weak,” Achilles told him honestly. “I’m scared that I’m broken beyond repair, but when I’m with you I feel right. I know what I want, out of life, out of everything. I want to be happy, and I can be happy with you. I feel it. What do you want, Patroclus?” 

“I don’t want you to die, Achilles,” Patroclus told him fearfully. “When we’re together, the more we are like this, the closer you get to dying. I know it. I’m so sorry, Achilles. I’m so sorry.”

Patroclus took off upon the plains, hearing Achilles desperately crying his name after him. Though it took everything within him, Patroclus did not look back as eventually the calls faded and the only sound which accompanied him was his feet slapping against the ground, his breath, and the frantic beating of his heart.

* * *

Patroclus continued running until his lungs could no longer stand their own burning. He rested his hands upon his knees and tried to gather himself properly, still feeling his eyes sting from the wind and his own tears. However when he looked up, he became acutely aware he was not alone in the darkness. With his skin prickling, Patroclus walked forward to meet whatever was waiting for him in the night.

There was an old woman standing upon the dark plain as Patroclus stumbled forward, his skin still burning with Achilles’ aching touch. Haggard and bent, with a thousand lines, and hair a shock of white and braided down her chest, she grasped a walking stick as her tattered and worn robes swirled around her like night itself. Patroclus stopped, the darkness pressing down upon him and making him feel utterly small.

“Patroclus, son of Menoetius,” the old woman said with a voice like crinkled parchment paper and creaky spinning wheels.

“Have you come to kill me?” Patroclus asked, barely able to control his shudder of terror.

“No, I have not,” the crone said almost playfully. “We all have favorites within this game we play. Aphrodite chose Paris, Thetis’ son is Achilles, Apollo chose you, and mine still remains unharmed by you. Never have you insulted me, so, I see no reason to kill you.”

“Your favorite…?” Patroclus said quietly.

“A horse and a grand trick is what Cassandra daughter of Priam said,” the Goddess chuckled with her oddly pleasant chuckle, and suddenly she lifted her gaze and Patroclus was nearly consumed with the glowing silver of her eyes. “My favorite will spin that prophecy into a strategy which will remain in the hearts of all men for eternity. But don’t tell him, I like to keep my favorites thinking for themselves. _I have taken away the mist from your eyes that before now was there, so that you may well recognize the god._ ” 

“Goddess Athena,” Patroclus croaked, bowing his head quickly. Suddenly where there had been a crone was a beautiful woman, hair like soft moonlight, eyes silver, and glowing from within.

“You are clever as well, and I tend to be soft upon the clever, I even reward it,” Athena said gently, while her gaze continued to be intense. “Let us chat. Be clever, and you shall be awarded with wisdom. So tell me, Patroclus son of Menoetius, why was it you that was chosen?”

“Cassandra said that I was not who I was meant to be, that something was changed. Achilles even said that it felt as if I was meant to be by his side. And I feel…” Patroclus murmured before shaking his head. “Is that why I was chosen?”

“I shall tell you a secret about the Gods, Patroclus,” Athena said thoughtfully, “Gods are consumed by their hearts, and because of this their passions are untamable. Whatever humans feel, we feel so much more intensely. I am not immune, after all, there was a reason this war started. Achilles is not immune to this either. If he feels something, then for him it is absolute truth.”

“If what Achilles feels to be true is his truth, and I was meant to be by his side, why was I not born a Greek?” Patroclus asked of her.

“I cannot answer this. You tell me; why were you not born a Greek?” Athena parried and Patroclus blinked.

“Because…something was changed. That’s what Cassandra said to me.”

“And what do you know about fate, Patroclus?” Athena probed, as if his answer was the most important thing she would hear that evening.

“It is inevitable…?”

“Ah, but here’s the important thing about fate. It is inevitable, but it is always determined by actions.”

“So someone changed my fate?” Patroclus gasped, his jaw falling open. “Who—why would someone have changed my fate? Why me—?”

“That is the question that everyone wishes to know that answer to isn’t it? Perhaps the question isn’t as important as we all think. Maybe the most important question is, what do you wish to fight for? That question can only be answered by you,” Athena promised him before tapping her cane.

“Thank you, Goddess,” Patroclus said as he bowed his head.

When he looked up the Goddess Athena was gone, as if she never existed within that place at all. Patroclus looked up to see the crescent of moon hanging in the sky, looking down upon him like the white of an eye that was not yet closed.

* * *

“I’m guessing you will keep me in the line of archers once more?” Patroclus asked bitterly before Hector even had a chance to open his mouth. Perhaps it was the sharpness of his tone, or the glare which Patroclus imagined was fearsome even for him, but Hector just gave him a sidelong look.

That day was much like the others, the sun bore down hot, the air was thick with only the blissful sea breeze moving it. The heat nearly shimmered off the ground in a trick of light, and Patroclus was unable to resist wiping his arm across his face to move his sweat-soak curls which were plastered to his forehead. However there was one keen difference to be felt. The Trojans stirred with anticipation as even in this oppressive weather, there was a new hope blown throughout the city. A hope that would be riding in from the east fast and grand as the chariot of the sun which was being pulled across the cloudless sky.

“Stall Achilles, and Sarpedon will finish this,” Paris said with a vicious grin. “They will come today!”

Patroclus felt no joy as he grasped his war bow, gritted his teeth, and joined the archers in the line.

The battle started as every other did, but instead of charging in Patroclus took his place among the archers. He pulled back the massive bow again and again, arrows showering the battlefield and striking down the Greek unceremoniously. A cheer went up from the front line as Patroclus’ arrow struck a man with his sword raised towards Paris, but Patroclus felt nothing but anger and grief swirling in his gut. He hated this, Patroclus realized with a wave of nausea. He hated this. Patroclus was killing men just like himself, men who only wanted to go home. For what? What in the name of the Gods was Patroclus even fighting for in the end—

_“PATROCLUS!”_

The roar came like a crashing wave, a war horn resounding from the heavens. Suddenly there was Achilles and his wrath, suddenly he was bursting like a lion through lines of men. Cleaving a trail of blood as he pushed and pushed and kept running. His helmet was gone, his golden curls shown in the sun, and Patroclus’ stomach twisted as he notched an arrow and aimed.

“Shoot me Patroclus!” Achilles was screaming towards the line of bowmen, grief and anger and hurt making his voice raw as he severed the heads of men from their bodies, bathing himself in blood. “Shoot me you damned coward! Do it! DO IT PATROCLUS!”

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispered, and as if Achilles heard him Patroclus watched his face whip toward him and—

A sudden blaring of horns from the side and a bursting of chaos reigned down. Patroclus watched as Sarpedon son of Zeus burst down the hill with an army of horsemen and light-wheeled chariots, his dark gold skin slick from his ride from the east. The standard of a horse flew above him, and the gates of Troy opened behind them to release the second wave of soldiers meant to push the Greek back into the sea. Emboldened, the Trojans before him push forward as the Greeks cry out for their heroes and kings.

Sarpedon joined Hector and Paris, clasping their hands before turning to face Achilles. Ajax and Automedon seem to pull forward to join Achilles, but truly Achilles stood alone. He stood alone in the battle, looking towards Patroclus.

Who was he fighting for? What did he want to fight for? Patroclus suddenly realized as he clasped his bow in his hands. He had served his purpose to Hector and Paris now, Sarpedon was here and now his existence only would aid them but serve nothing of importance. Patroclus knew that too, he was not so prideful to think that this couldn’t have been done without him as well. Patroclus’ existence had just made it easier, which was what Apollo had intended. He had been Achilles’ labor. Now it did not matter, if Troy could wipe out the army by sheer numbers then Achilles’ existence was just an annoyance.

_What do you want, Patroclus?_ Achilles’ question, while his voice sweetened with care and his lips almost trembling as he had lay his soul bare to him, rang in his ears and into the deepest recesses of his heart. What Patroclus wanted had never been important. He had been born a farmer into a farmer’s lot, despite the fact he could have been more. He had been brought here to fight a fight which had nothing to do with him, and kept for nine years. What did Patroclus want? Suddenly Patroclus understood the answer.

With his eyes trained towards Achilles and the clash of Kings which had engulfed him, Patroclus took a deep breath and released a single arrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athena's Meta: 
> 
> I have taken away the mist from your eyes, that before now  
> was there, so that you may well recognize the god and the mortal.  
> Therefore now, if a god making trial of you comes hither  
> do you not do battle head on with the gods immortal,  
> not with the rest; but only if Aphrodite, Zeus' daughter,  
> comes to the fighting, her at least you may stab with the sharp bronze. 
> 
> (The Illiad, Book 5, lines 127-132)


	9. To Be Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So life came and sort of wrecked me for a couple weeks (exams, work, family, all that good stuff). But the good news is, I’m back with a new chapter that I hope you all enjoy! I think we’re looking at two more chapters of this fic until completion but we’re see. Plus, if you guys want to see a full-blown sex scene or not, let me know. I'm sort of debating whether it would work and I always like to hear feedback from my readers. 
> 
> In any case, enjoy!

In his darkest nights, laying awake with little luck in sleep or dreams, Patroclus’ mind sometimes wandered to places where it perhaps shouldn’t have. Such was the unfortunate ailments of soldiers while soldiering. Sometimes Patroclus believed he was nothing more than a vision, whittled away into a shade. A wisp of a boy sustained by nothing more than memory and voice, like unfortunate Echo who only lived by sound bounced off mist-capped mountaintops alone. He lived in a vibrant, violent world. And yet, Patroclus felt flat, grey, and ancient in his body not even fully over the cusp of manhood. _Old Soul_ , his mother had once soothed as she pressed a warm kiss to his hair. If that had been true as a child, now he was ancient.

“The soul does not die with death, Patroclus,” his father had said darkly and brooding as he sharpened his sword. “If one achieves greatness or recognition your soul can journey to the Elysium Fields. There you can either laze about, or you can choose to be reborn.”

“Reborn?” Patroclus asked quietly, hiding his trembling hands by gripping his blankets (an unfortunately common tactic which his father turned his nose up in disgust at for his poor simple son could give him no glory).

“The soul is dipped in the Lethe and made to forget their lives if they chose to be reborn. And if they make Elysium three times, then they are sent to the Isle of the Blessed to live in eternal paradise. So one must achieve greatness, to be given reward,” his father told him with a clenching jaw.

“Do you think I could be reborn?” Patroclus asked him.

His father just scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard before leaving him. 

It had been ridiculous then. Patroclus was Patroclus, he always assumed he would never be anything but that. He was small, insignificant—nothing in comparison to the grand kings and other men of note. And yet, even Patroclus had been given the chance. He had been given color, he had been given purpose, and he had been given the desire to perhaps for once dare to dream of more than what he was born with.

Patroclus decided right then and there, that he would be reborn. So he drew his bow and he shot.

Patroclus’ arrow struck true into Paris’ horse. The horse’s scream pierce the air as it reared and fell in the final throws of agony. In the chaos Patroclus watched as Paris was thrown unceremoniously. But before he hit the ground, it was almost as if he had completely disappeared from sight and been spirited away. But Patroclus could no longer look to tell if he vision was true because he was sprinting across the field of battle haphazardly. There was no time to think above the screaming and the blood-splattered chaos as horses crashed into men, mud was torn from the ground under pounding feet of animal and beast, his thoughts were flat and grey like a winter sky and he could no longer grapple with anything but pure terror as he continued to rush half blind—

“Patroclus, left!”

Achilles’ voice came and Patroclus without even thinking dove left. A flash of silver streaked and caught the sun as a soldier was suddenly speared through the throat with terrifying and savage accuracy. Patroclus desperately tried to search as he rushed towards the area where Achilles’ voice had come from, but there was nothing but a cold panic as seemingly half the Trojan Army bore down on him breaking their lines and pursuing his shadow in some dream of honor. For a moment, Patroclus was nothing but that blank slate of horror—for a moment he turned and saw Hector screaming his name—

“Greeks, ready your spears!” One of the Greek’s fine Kings, boar-like Agamemnon bellowed. Patroclus didn’t have any time to react before suddenly he was tackled.

His head cracked against rock, and he felt no more.

* * *

His dreams were full of the sea.

His mother’s eyes turned towards it, a sweet smile as the tide washed the shore so golden that Patroclus was sure if he sifted the sands he would find precious metal. And then, as he scooped a rock from the sands to throw, he looked up to see his mother walking towards the sea. It swirled and frothed around her ankles, mist cold against his face as her hair swept against her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she slipped in so fast and sharp that Patroclus could just cry numbly and scramble towards where she had disappeared. As soon as he reached out to the place where his mother had disappeared, another hand was the one which reached out from the sea. Fingers clawed at his wrist, digging in and sparking pain along his skin. The sky darkened and split open with storm-winds as she emerged from the black churning sea a goddess, her eyes boring into him and mouth twisted in hatred.

“I have seen,” Thetis said in the tone of predatory birds and storm-tides, as Patroclus sat their frozen as her prey as one hand still clamped around his wrist. It was cold and white as scraped-clean bone. Her other hand slid to rest in his hair in a horrific parody of motherly touch which burned his scalp. “You should have never existed, but you did. You should have never sought him out, but you did. Chance after chance you were given and yet, this still is your choice. I know how the secrets beckon to you; that is your curse. But death can cure you of your insatiable curiosity—death will free Achilles from this wretchedness.”

The dark of her eyes, the darkness of the sea, it seeped into Patroclus and he could not have cried out even if he’d dared too. It was the darkness of bottomless curses and a bottomless depth that would swallow Patroclus whole, a void that would render Patroclus meaningless once more. But no, Patroclus would not allow himself to sink into those curses and become nothing when he had truly seized his first thing in his life. Patroclus would fight with Achilles, that he had decided. Not for wrong or right or for glory or fame, but only because he chose too. Perhaps it was selfish, but Patroclus thought he deserved to be selfish if only for a fleeting moment. He had truly had enough of the world telling him what to do. Patroclus had chosen to be reborn. 

Perhaps Thetis saw the newly hatched determination in his eyes, or maybe she had just grown bored with him, because in one moment their eyes had met. The next moment Patroclus’ head was plunged into darkness, the frigid brackish water bubbling silver with his screams.

* * *

Patroclus awoke from his dreams and immediately moaned. He was laying down somewhere exceedingly comfortable. His head ached, but the bedroll he was resting in was a delicious dream that someone had dreamt up. He was bundled under blankets, and what must have been a deerskin which had been tanned and wrought until it was decadently soft was thoughtfully layered on top of him and was suede-sweet beneath his fingertips. Pillows, actual bird-feather pillows, rested beneath his head. He had been tucked in caringly (more so than he had been since childhood), and was now seeped in warmth until he was boneless. For a moment he hesitated in opening his eyes, praying to any god who didn’t hate him yet, because in a moment of odd terror Patroclus couldn’t help but believe that the moment he opened his eyes the comfort would disappear.

He opened them, and found himself in a lavishly furnished tent. It had been bolstered with tapestries to keep out the rain, but which lent it a vibrant red glow in candle light. The deerskin blanket Patroclus had been painstakingly wrapped in wasn’t the only rich fur, as Patroclus stared with his mouth ajar at what looked like a lion’s pelt. His fingers itched to sink into the fur, and probably would all the way into the knuckle if he dared to touch it. Patroclus inched up to a sitting position to take in the scene more fully, to run his fingers through the pelt—

A sudden draft and light hitting his back made Patroclus nearly jump out of skin. A girl, not Achilles, stood before him holding a ewer of water. She was very pretty, her eyes as dark as the warmest earth and settled in an almond-shaped face. Her hair was drawn back to reveal pretty cheekbones and a sliver of mouth the color of pomegranates. There was quick-wit hidden there, in those eyes that watched him and absorbed his every move, or non-move, as he sat as still as a rabbit caught by a predator.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to touch it,” Patroclus immediately pleaded, his head bowed, wrenching his hands away from the beautiful pelts that were upon his lap. 

Her giggle was musical and pleasant to the ears, and her eyes softened. She shook her head before placing down the water.

“I’m sure Prince Achilles would not mind as he was the one who tucked you in,” the girl said, and suddenly Patroclus realized that this was the girl that Achilles mentioned that he “kept”. A pretty girl such as she would have made a handsome war prize, and Patroclus could not help but feel a little sick with sadness (and something else roiling in his stomach). “I will go get him, he was with some of the generals.”

“You don’t have to interrupt that,” Patroclus said before giving a grimace. “But where am I? This isn’t…I can’t imagine the other prisoners are given this or else all Trojans would wish to be captured.”

“By my name which is Briseas, I swear to you that you are no prisoner,” Briseas said as if she was disclosing a secret. “And this is certainly not a prison, unless you consider a prince’s quarters to be a prison.”

Upon that note, Briseas left him with that terrifying revelation. Suddenly his vision was swimming as he clamored up on his feet. It was the prince’s quarter, and he began to stare unabashed. Upon a table of wood lay a veritable feast. Patroclus hadn’t stayed long enough for Priam to feed him, so what he gazed upon with the most indolent sight he had ever seen. Bread, yeasty and crusty golden bread, lay upon the table. (Bread was an impossible indulgence for a tenant farmer, instead, wheat was stewed into thin gruel to last as long as possible.) Pots of glistening olive oil steeped with herbs for dipping and spreading. Bowls of dark plump grapes, silky barely oats that trickled out from between Patroclus’ fingertips, olives in jars, pure white milk, and sweet creamy goat cheese. Figs glistening and swimming in honey that smelt like delicate almond tree blossoms. Upon another table lay scrolls that made Patroclus’ eyes swim with the hidden meanings and wish with all his might he knew what they might say. Finally the candlelight flickered and revealed that which Patroclus knew well, the golden armor which suited Achilles as a second skin. He was within the prince’s quarters, Patroclus thought dizzily as he pressed his fingers to his temples while recognition pounded in him. He was laying within Achilles’ bedroll, in Achilles’ tent. It was like something out of a tale, a peasant whisked away to the abode of a prince. Any of these things that were laid out before him would have cost more than he could ever dream. But still his eyes and fingers and feet were drawn to the most impossible treasure of all.

Unable to help himself, Patroclus brushed the design of the phoenix across the breastplate, wondering if for a moment the phoenix would take off with the help of the vitality the prince must have stored within it.

What would it be like to wear it? Patroclus thought, fever-washed and with longing that and filled him like melting candle-wax and warmed olive-oil. Would it be like being embraced? The lion allowing a simple hound to share its hide, to draw warmth and protection from it.

Achilles burst into the tent. He did not move to broach the distance between them, and for an odd moment Patroclus wondered if Achilles might be afraid. But why would Achilles be afraid? Achilles should never be afraid of anything, the much more rational part of Patroclus argued. However he walked forward with the cautious stalking of a man attempting to tame a wild thing, his eyes intensely settled in Patroclus as if trying to ascertain something precious from him.

“You are awake,” Achilles said, his voice betraying worry. “I’m glad, the healer looked at you and said it was nothing serious.”

“Your mother visited me,” Patroclus half-blurted out. “And…well, she tried to kill me I think? It might have been a dream—I don’t know. It’s been a little confusing for me for the past month or so.”

“That does sound like her, she’s…protective,” Achilles said as if talking about the breeze and not the attempted murder his mother had tried to commit. “She would not kill you, she knows what you have done for me.”

Patroclus wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh in Achilles’ face, punch him for being oblivious, or crumple on the floor in a fetal position and sob. All three sounded like viable options and reactions now that Patroclus was thinking about it. Instead Patroclus settled for a safer option.

“Why am I here? Shouldn’t I be with the other prisoners?”

“Of course not,” Achilles said suddenly and forcefully. “You struck down Paris—the coward. You fought for us, you are our ally, so of course you don’t belong with the prisoners.”

“I’m a traitor,” Patroclus said, an odd emptiness within him. “I betrayed Troy. All those soldiers who looked towards me, who trusted me. I betrayed them all—“

“Why?”

Achilles’ question made Patroclus stare at him. Achilles was looking at him with a gaze that could shatter a man, with an intensity that burned. That odd longing that shouldn’t have belong to him came back stronger. It had been stirred from his depths like sediment in a river by Achilles’ golden armor, by candlelight and lion-pelt heat, by whatever had happened between them. It arose even stronger and made it harder to swallow. But Patroclus clenched his fists, nails pressing against the calloused skin of his palms and grounding him.

“I thought that if I was with you maybe I could change, even if it was only a little bit,” Patroclus told him, his voice thick with emotion. “It may be foolish, it is arrogant. I am nothing, I could never be anything. But more than anything I wish for this.”

“Do so by your own will,” Achilles pleaded, all golden curls, meadow-green eyes, and sunlight skin. “I will ask nothing of you, but I promise we shall be together forever and always if that is what you wish. We will be changed together, Patroclus. Just say so—please say so.” 

Patroclus stepped forward and pressed their mouths together, and so they said no more.


	10. What Is To Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of stuff kept me from updating this the past few weeks. A test, a vacation, another fic that I wanted to update. But finally it is here and a little longer than usual so thank you all for your patience. Second to last chapter, hell yeah! (And maybe an epilogue we’ll see how it goes). 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Sexual Content

They kissed, their mouths flowering touches bloomed as they were pressed together. For a few minutes they did nothing but kiss languidly, chastely. Until a noise bubbled up within Achilles’ throat which set Patroclus’ face on fire. He pulled back, trying for a moment to escape in order to get his thoughts straight, but Achilles pulled him impatiently towards the bedrolls. That was too much like him, after all, Achilles would have whatever he desired most.

“I don’t know if I can be what you want,” Patroclus mumbled as if tripping over his own words as he sat beside Achilles. “I can only be me—“

Patroclus’ voice and thoughts were cut abysmally short by Achilles pressing his mouth against Patroclus’. He was melting again, becoming nothing more than sensation. Suddenly he was defined by nothing more than Achilles’ tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, the way his fingers gently ran over Patroclus’ chin, there was no room to think until they both pulled away and gasped for air which fill and expanded in his chest which did not feel big enough to contain his heart.

“I don’t care about that,” Achilles said softly and urgently, cupping Patroclus’ face in his hands. “I want you, Patroclus. Only you…was I good?”

“What?” Patroclus asked dumbly, surely staring at Achilles owlishly, and Achilles blinked before quirking into a grin.

“My kiss, was it good? You are the only person I have ever kissed,” Achilles admitted, there was no shame, his smile was brilliant white against gold. Suddenly Patroclus felt his face grow warm and he reached up to touch his mouth, probe his lips with his fingertips as if to try to physically comb out change. With everything that had happened he had somehow forgotten that his was a kissed mouth now. And he had kissed Achilles, Achilles the golden prince with his knife-like smile and valley-green eyes, he had been Achilles’ first kiss. Achilles had been his first kiss.

The recognition tugged at his gut and was giddy in his stomach. He swelled oddly proud and a little hysterical at the realization. He felt like a child, rather than a fully grown man.

“I…I think so,” Patroclus breathed, suddenly worried. “It was perfect. You are the only one I have kissed too. Was I alright?”

“You were magnificent,” Achilles said with a sly grin. “But perhaps we would both be better with practice.” 

“You are just saying that,” Patroclus told him dryly with a roll of his eyes. “Since you don’t know any better.”

“Shall I show you how magnificent I think you are?” Achilles dared, his voice dipping into somewhere shimmering and dangerous. It was punctuated by Patroclus’ hitched breath as Achilles’ hand trailed over his chest. His traitorous body pressed up into the touch which threatened to undo his very sense of self. But it wasn’t enough for him, Patroclus wanted to see more—feel more, as Achilles’ mouth latched onto his neck and tongue lavished as it followed. His hands were moving to pull Achilles’ robe from his body as Achilles stripping him between kisses, to slide his fingers over his back and golden shoulders which had haunted his dreams as the muscles beneath his fingertips contracted and pulled taunt. Their mouths met again, far more urgent this time, as Achilles’ hands went further—

“I want this,” Patroclus realized, dazed and shocked. He wanted. He wanted this so badly, so feverishly. This feeling, Patroclus wanted it to be his, he wanted it to be more, and he wanted to share it with Achilles and only with Achilles.

“Show me how much you want it,” Achilles bid him.

Patroclus groaned and pressed his mouth against the slope of Achilles’ neck, tasting of his skin like a draught he had been dying for. Achilles’ growled in pleasure, the sound peppered into his ears with kisses and the slightest sharpness of teeth. Patroclus felt his legs wrap around Achilles’ hips to pull them closer, as Achilles drove against him hard and fast. The sensation was so good—almost too much as sensitive skin pressed against sensitive skin. Patroclus reached down to take them both in his fingers, and Achilles gasped and pressed his face further against his neck.

“Please, Patroclus, please!” Achilles was nearly whining.

“Achilles!” Patroclus gasped breathless, his heartbeat rushing in his ears and pounding in his chest.

Patroclus came first, and almost wrenched Achilles over the edge with him. They lay there bare, panting with exertion, and sticky in a way that was far from unpleasant. In a haze from pleasure, Patroclus turned his face and found Achilles’ mouth with his own. Achilles seemed to entertain himself with sweet, adamant kisses that Patroclus could have continued forever.

“What are we?” Patroclus croaked, wincing at the sound of his own voice which seemed ill-suited for this moment. Achilles propped his head up on his hand, and traced the length of Patroclus’ body, as if he had more he could discover.

“Whatever you want us to be,” Achilles said thoughtfully. “Whatever you are ready for. I meant what I said, Patroclus. I won’t ask anything from you, but I wish for us to be together.”

“You shouldn’t just ignore yourself for me, that isn’t right,” Patroclus chided, reaching over to tuck a curl behind Achilles’ ear, reveling in that softness, the way Achilles’ skin shined with sweat and glittered gold against his earthly brown. The contrast was jarring and so beautiful.

“Then what would you have?” Achilles asked, shifting forward as if Patroclus’ answer was that on which the world hung onto.

“Let me fight by your side,” Patroclus said rolling over to move close to him. “If we fight together, maybe we could both find it.”

“Find what?” Achilles asked, intrigued.

“A way that we could be happy together,” Patroclus answered before shaking his head. “This is all backwards, isn’t it?”

“Only a little bit, but happy,” Achilles said, running the word through his mouth as if he were trying to grasp it. Suddenly a grin broke out across his face, like the rising of a run. “I like the sound of that. Being happy together with you would be perfect. Tell me, as soon as this damned war is over, what are you looking forward to most?”

“Sleeping as late as I would like,” Patroclus said immediately. “Farming again, I would like to nurture instead of destroy once more, but I don’t think I will ever be able to return to my home.”

“My father will happily give you a plot of land,” Achilles said as if it was the easiest thing. “My father won’t be able to refuse my therapon.”

“Therapon?” Patroclus repeated. He knew the word, it meant a-brother-in-arms who swore themselves to a prince in blood-oath and love. A highest honor, to become a prince’s honor guard. “I cannot, I am not—“

“You will fight beside me, will you not?” Achilles asked him as he grinned. “You will fight beside me, and men will speak tales of the illustrious victory of Achilles and his most faithful companion Patroclus. In the glory of this victory, my father will not be able to deny this wish.”

“You have got it backwards, perhaps they will speak of the Glorious Patroclus with his companion Achilles,” Patroclus teased.

“Ha! And what gave you this adorable idea?” Achilles asked, joking and competitive in turn.

“How about you beat me first, and then you can deny it?” Patroclus pointed out.

Achilles kissed him, and Patroclus on that day was surely defeated.

* * *

In his dreams, Patroclus was alone. The condition was something that Patroclus was used too. In a crowd of warriors Patroclus was sure he had simply disappeared. He had forgotten himself so easily, that when he had realized that desire had not been stamped out of him he had been nearly shocked. It would be easy to slip back into those memories, the water which curled and swirled around his ankles was as warm as bath water. If he sank deeper he would find that his own nature ran deep.

“I see that not even Thetis could dissuade you from what you truly desired.”

His dreamscape was suddenly threaded with light, a cold light which escaped storm cloud cover. The chill bit into Patroclus as mist swirled from the sea, bidding him further into dreams. But Patroclus knew better now. Instead of following the whispering fog into memories he turned and found Apollo standing opposite of him upon that dreaded beach. His grin was congenial, but the darkness of his eyes and the calculation there made Patroclus shrink back (even if it was unintentional) and await the faithful strike that was coming for him.

“Lord Apollo, I—“

“I am not mad at you, Patroclus. Despite what you think,” Apollo chuckled, his grin becoming sharper and more predatorily, his hair metallic in the lowlight. “In fact, I am happy.”

“Happy—but—I betrayed the Trojans!” Patroclus gasped, his thoughts rattling in his skull.

“You have and you haven’t,” Apollo said as he pulled an arrow out of his quiver, inspecting it before sighing and placing it back in his quiver in favor for another arrow. “The consequences of your actions will perhaps work in a way not yet foreseen—well, mostly unseen.”

“God of Prophecy,” Patroclus said, feeling his blood drain from his face as the realization dawned upon him. “I don’t know what you are planning, but whatever it is leave Achilles out of it! Please, it’s not his fault things are like this—“

“Ah, Patroclus, remember, I only give prophecies. It is the Fates who weave the tapestry,” Apollo said disinterested. “And you see, once a prophecy is given it can never be changed. There are things that are inevitable in this world, Patroclus.”

“And in all other worlds?” Patroclus demanded, clenching his hands into fists.

“My, you have been busy,” Apollo said sounding pleased as he pulled out another arrow only to snap it between his fingers, the sound making Patroclus nearly jump out of his skin. “Yes, in all other worlds as well. Achilles will die after he kills Hector, Patroclus. My prophecy will stand, despite the interference. Achilles surely is the most extraordinary of men, and the most human of them. Just as any other human, love will be his ruin. Taking you away from him did nothing to stop his fate, it was all just a game which will come to an end. I told you, I shall balance scale and you are the challenge—the last obstacle if you will.”

“Achilles won’t kill Hector! I don’t care what I have to do, I will stop him! If I’m by his side I can stop him!” Patroclus cried out. “I can change his fate, I can—“

“Don’t you remember, Patroclus? There are things in this world that can never be changed, lessons that will always need to be learned, and stories that always need to be told,” Apollo said before giving a rueful grin as he shifted a third arrow and twirled it between his fingertips. “But that’s not for lack of trying, that is. Attempt it at your own cost, Patroclus. I won’t stop you, and sometimes fate can be changed. Success or failure, either way, we will see how it plays out.”

“Achilles was right,” Patroclus nearly spat. “All you gods do is manipulate people.”

“And there is nothing alive more agonized than man of all that breathe and crawl across the earth,” Apollo said with a vicious smile. “Use what I gave you well, Patroclus.” 

Suddenly, faster than a striking snake, Apollo stabbed him with the arrow through the heart. Patroclus tried to scream, but hot blood was pooling in his throat filling it with copper. He stumbled back into the sea, he was disappearing into sea foam, he was going to die—

Patroclus awoke in bed alone, with something pressed heavy against his hand. He pulled his arm away from his heart to reveal an arrow, shining golden within his grasp as it caught the beams of morning sunlight which filtered through the tent’s flap.

I won’t fail, Patroclus promised himself and Apollo (who he was sure was listening). I won’t.

Patroclus quickly slid the arrow into his quiver amongst the others, and as he did so Achilles appeared through the flap. His grin was nearly infectious, and it spread further across his cheeks as he bounced on his heels like an excited boy and yet gracefully carrying a bowl of water without letting a single droplet escape.

“Good morning,” Achilles greeted in a sing-song manner. “You are still here.”

“I don’t know where you think I could have escaped to,” Patroclus pointed out to him trying to shake off the dream but found himself still trembling, and Achilles tipped his head to the side as he placed the bowl down. 

“I half expected you to be spirited away,” Achilles said, taking the spot next to Patroclus as Patroclus reached to dip a cloth into the water. Its cool wet touch was entirely welcome as he washed the dry sweat from the back of his neck. “Patroclus?”

“Yes?” He asked, looking back towards Achilles who was nearly brilliant to behold in the morning light which fashioned a gold crown from his curls.

“I can never figure out what you are thinking,” Achilles said, sounding oddly bothered.

“Guess what I am thinking about then,” Patroclus told him thoughtlessly. Fingers skimming across his back made Patroclus shiver and ripple with goosebumps, and he turned to find Achilles pressing his mouth against his shoulder in thoughtless intimacy. He smiled slyly as a blush filled Patroclus’ cheeks.

“Perhaps something like this,” Achilles crooned like the breeze between river grass, “or perhaps this.”

“I’m trying to get clean,” Patroclus warned him.

“And maybe I can help,” Achilles dared him, moving in closer.

Patroclus didn’t argue.

* * *

The quiet which pervaded was tense. No one moved to eat the offering placed in front of them, instead the Kings of Greece looked forward as if they had been told damning news. Patroclus could not help but stare as these kings debated the only thing which was seemingly important among their business that day: him.

“I will not have him among us—he should be with the other prisoners,” Agamemnon growled. “We’ve already gotten word from the Trojans, they are demanding that we give him back. And we should let the Trojans deal with him.”

The way Agamemnon spat the word him made it sound like Patroclus was a disease. And maybe he was, after all, Apollo wasn’t only the god of archery and prophecy. Patroclus could see where his fear was derived, and could understand why he would be wary. At the same time, trying to explain Apollo’s frustrating antics to the Kings of Greece appeared to be a moot point. Patroclus was sure that nothing he could say would convince them of anything. 

“Patroclus saved many Greeks yesterday, he earned his place beside us,” Achilles argued back.

“Not to mention, seeing the previous hero of Troy fighting for us would hurt the Trojan’s fighting spirit,” Diomedes mentioned from the side.

“Or it could inflame it further,” Odysseus said thoughtfully before turning his shrewd gaze onto Patroclus. And suddenly Patroclus understood, this man was the goddess Athena’s favorite. “Tell me, Patroclus, why do you wish to fight for the Greeks?”

“Because Paris was wrong to take Helen,” Patroclus lied, he let his gaze shift to Agamemnon and Menelaus but his words were wholly dedicated to Odysseus. He knelt before them, feeling Achilles tense beside him, but Patroclus did not look towards him as he supplicated. “And I could not bear to fight any longer for a man I did not believe in. Deny me the ability to fight for you, and I will still be glad I was given the chance. Put me with the other prisoners, but know my heart goes with you.”

“It is true what Prince Achilles said, the farmer-boy speaks like a prince himself,” Menelaus noted, no trace of animosity in his tone. 

“Perhaps Apollo’s gifts run further than that of just the bow,” Odysseus said with a smile that was unreadable. “Lords, shall we take a vote? Of all those present, who would allow Patroclus to enter battle at our side?”

The vote was cast, by a wide margin the lords raise their hands in favor of letting Patroclus joined. Agamemnon sat as still as a statue, his cold rejection plain upon his features.

“We shall then allow Patroclus in, Prince Achilles,” Agamemnon nearly spat. “I hope you enjoy it, and may the gods keep you from any traitors.” 

Patroclus nearly had to physically remove Achilles from the tent. He walked like a caged animal, wild, fevered, face as hard as granite.

“I will kill him for insulting you,” Achilles growled. “You have done nothing but what your duty led you to, and then you came to offer yourself to aid him. He does not deserve your help, he does not deserve my help—“

“Achilles,” Patroclus said firmly and Achilles jerked his head to look at him. His temper was uncontrollable (just like passions ran uncontrollable in the gods, Patroclus remembered with a wince). His rage was focused and deadly, and Patroclus was thankful it was not directed at him but instead for him. “Come spar with me.”

“What? The day before we fight?” Achilles asked, as if trying to work the idea around the fearsome rage in his head, as though all other thoughts besides dashing Agamemnon against the rocks of the sea-cliffs was too difficult.

“You need to do something that isn’t stupid, and I want to practice fighting with you. Will you come?” Patroclus said knowingly. Achilles clenched and unclenched his hands, before nodding silently and stalking forward without sound.

“I’m not stupid,” Achilles muttered under his breath.

“You can be incredibly stupid,” Patroclus pointed out to him. “But that does not make you bad. It just makes you dense and stubborn as a bull.”

“No one has ever compared me to a bull before,” Achilles said, the creeping sound of amusement coming back to him. There was his Achilles, Patroclus thought, before fighting off a blush at his own insolence that he could claim Achilles as his own.

“No one has ever lived after fighting against you before me, so there is a first time for everything,” Patroclus said, putting his hand on Achilles’ shoulder. The tension was still there, but lessened greatly as they walked towards an open space together.

They trained until they were sore and laughter once again crept into Achilles’ features. By the time they met Briseis and her knowing hidden smile, Patroclus knew that they were as prepared as they would ever be for what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apollo's Meta:
> 
> "There is nothing alive more agonized than man / of all that breathe and crawl across the earth"  
> Homer's The Iliad, 17.515-516


	11. The Spinning Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Huzzah! However, we’ve got an epilogue so I guess technically there is one more chapter to this thing! Sorry for the lateness, considering school, but hopefully this can make up for some of it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Achilles kissed him, it was a press of soft lips from between the hard helmets which bid to separate their faces. It was the trace of warmth and comfort which Patroclus craved, after they had both finished donning their armor. Achilles looked so valiant, awe-inspiring in that armor which suited him like a lion’s hide. In comparison, Patroclus surely looked like a boy trying on his father’s armor. However, Patroclus felt that by Achilles’ side he might be able to pull the moon down by his teeth.

“You must always remain beside me,” Achilles reminded him, grabbing his chin to steady their gazes together, and Patroclus couldn’t help but swallow. “And don’t do anything absurd.”

“You telling me not to do something absurd? Are you well? I should be the one reminding you,” Patroclus pointed out with a laugh that sounded worried and Achilles gave him a look of disbelief that crinkled his brow in a way that made Patroclus want to kiss it smooth. 

“Were you not in your own body when you fought me?” Achilles asked of him curiously, for a moment he grasped his hand and kissed it. “Were you so possessed that you don’t remember the strange things you did?”

“I remember it’s just—“ Patroclus struggled before saying with no shame as he slung his quiver over his shoulder, “I cannot fight you as a warrior. You are the superior warrior to any man. All I could do was try to frustrate you.”

“And you can fight all these men as a warrior of equal merit, so please, save your odd tricks to our spars,” Achilles said with a wide grin which made his heart stutter. “If we are together, no one will defeat us. The Trojans will stand no chance, I feel that in my heart of hearts.”

“Then we will remain together on the battlefield,” Patroclus said, clasping Achilles’ shoulder. “Do not lose yourself to bloodlust, Achilles. We have a mission, to lead the Myrmidons, to show the Trojans—”

“The Trojans are of little concern to me,” Achilles said with a sharp baring of teeth meant to be a grin, but even now it looked vaguely terrifying even though he knew that Achilles would do him no harm (Patroclus still could not help but feel sorrow for the Trojan soldiers who would find themselves facing his blade). 

Achilles led him to the chariot, yoked already to its three horse team. Patroclus had driven a chariot once upon a time. That was what he had been forced into, and it was Achilles’ grand scheme to show off to the Trojans exactly what they were facing. At the feeling of the charioteer behind the reins, the horses lurched forward and unsettled Patroclus’ stomach. There was a strange sensation settling in him but it appeared too late or foolish to say anything. The Myrmidons were moving forward as were they as Patroclus drove the horses with numb fingers.

They rushed headlong towards the armies and the ships, heads in both armies turning at what must have been the glorious sight of golden Achilles riding in as if on the wind of the heavens itself. And yet to Patroclus’ shock, it was not only Achilles’ name that was screamed—also his. And then with a crash they were among the battle. Trojans screamed and scrambled back as Achilles hefted a spear and threw it with perfect aim into the breast of a Trojan. Patroclus had another to him in a moment, as the Greeks began to rally with a howl of hope. Menelaus lead men as he cast a Trojan prince down, one of Nestor’s son threw a spear to follow retreating shadows.

A chariot burst from the fray born of a burst of light. Sarpedon son of Zeus roared like thunder cracking across the sky, perhaps a curse or a challenge that Patroclus cannot understand. But suddenly as Sarpedon turned his chariot and angled it in, and Patroclus being the far less experienced chariot driver jerked the reins too sharply. Achilles acted quickly, grabbing Patroclus around his middle and heaving them both through the air and sending them sprawling on the ground. Sarpedon loomed for only a moment, arm bent in an unnatural angle, his mouth twisted sharply and eyes searching for blood.

Achilles’ spear gored Sarpedon through the neck and cracks open his veins to bloom red upon the sand. The Lycians swarmed as locusts, hungry for the men who have robbed their king of his life-blood. Achilles routed them, reaping their lives with ease. Patroclus fired arrow after arrow dizzily as his back pressed against Achilles and Achilles laughed with joy, and perhaps it was from the fall, or perhaps from the foul taste in his mouth but something was coming together in his mind, something terrifyingly familiar about this scene.

Hector’s voice echoed softly, as his chariot skimmed across the sand like a bird over water coming ever closer. Hector would do something that Achilles feared most, but Achilles feared no manner of death or pain. He feared defeat but Achilles would never lose. Achilles would die after killing Hector, but why would Achilles try to kill Hector and face his death when Patroclus would always remain besides—

And just like that, Patroclus was set free.

“Patroclus!” Achilles’ voice was wrenched from his voice and panicked suddenly Patroclus was running for Hector. Hector was shouting his name and hefting a spear, and Patroclus strung one arrow and it flew. Spear did not hit him, but instead he fell and rolled in his efforts to escape it. He did not know where his arrow struck but the chariot was sliding in panic and overturned. “Patroclus what are you—“

“Hector will kill me!” Patroclus explained with a gasp, as Achilles helped to heft him up. He felt as if the memories were settled right behind his eyes, just out of sight, however the sensation and understanding swirling there filled him with a strength he had lacked. “That’s it, Achilles! If Hector kills me, you will kill him. So I must defeat Hector! That’s the only way—!”

“Then I will kill him before he comes close to you!” Achilles growled, raw and angry and nearly twitching with energy to be inflicted upon someone else. If Achilles was set loose to be free with that anger, Patroclus was sure he would be able to defeat anyone he met in combat easily. However, this was the last thing that Achilles should do.

“If you kill him, you will die!” Patroclus reminded him sharply, drawing from that calm place of strength. “I won’t let you die. Let me stand beside you as an equal for once!”

The look on Achilles’ face rearranged, from anger to something resembling acceptance. He made a noise of annoyance as he launched a spear into an oncoming Trojan before walking forward. As his back was turned, his shoulders were straight and he looked ahead fearlessly. It was Achilles against a sea, however for a moment Patroclus believed that Achilles might have the ability to part it.

“Then go with my blessing!” Achilles said as he hefted two spears from corpses and looked towards the oncoming masses with a smile for Patroclus. “I will keep everyone from interfering, and if you need of me, I shall be there.”

Patroclus nodded, meeting Achilles’ gaze one last time, before rushing forward to meet Hector upon the mud.

Hector awaited him standing tall and proud despite the blooming bruise upon his cheek. His shoulders were set strong and wide, and the loss of his shield and helmet before the gates of the great city of Troy did nothing to reduce his presence. Many men were escaping behind him to those gates, as if the pious prince was the last bastion keeping them from death. However both he and Patroclus stood on the brink, looking towards each other.

“That is has come to this makes me sad, Patroclus,” Hector said as he drew his sword, metal flashing against the midday light. “You have betrayed Troy, and all of her people. For this you must pay the price.”

“You betrayed Troy when you allowed this foolishness to begin,” Patroclus told him, forcing words from sand-gritted teeth. “I had wished only to return to my home, but I realized that as long as my home was given by servitude it could only be prison. I wish to have a new home of my own making, your majesty, I will do what I must.”

“That creature is no man, he cannot love anyone as an equal,” Hector told him with fire in his dark gaze.

“You have never known Achilles as I have, not in all the worlds we might have lived in,” Patroclus said as he drew his sword.

“But I have known love, and for Troy I will kill you,” Hector said before lunging forward.

Hector was unlike Achilles. He was tall and heavy, and his blows were slow but painful as the sword rang out with every strike. But Patroclus found an opening every time, ducking under the blows, jumping back to miss them. He had learned from Achilles’ attention and from his challenges. And Patroclus was patient, and willing to wait.

Hector swung his sword and took Patroclus slightly off balance with the force. Patroclus yelped, trying to steady himself and feeling his ankle twinge with pain. His leg gave out for a moment and Patroclus desperately rolled to get out of the lunging swing of Hector, his quiver emptying of arrows and his bow left upon the ground. He scrambled to his feet, shooting pain radiating up his leg as he gasped. His speed greatly reduced, he could hardly meet Hector’s next swing.

What was he going to do? Patroclus thought panicked. What was he going to—

Patroclus’ sword escaped his grasp, sent clattering away. Patroclus scrambled as best he could, reaching for the only thing he could grasp.

It only took a moment. Hector moved forward to jab him, and Patroclus felt a sharp pain in his side. In a panicked and desperate motion, all Patroclus could do was swing his arm. Patroclus slipped back, clenching his hand against his side. Hector gave a strange croak, slipping to his knees with a heavy drop. No sound could escape Patroclus’ throat as he watched Hector fall over. The arrow head in his hand was golden, and only a scratch had seemingly been inflicted upon Hector. However the damage had been done, Hector’s mouth was filled with foam, his body jerked once—twice, and then with eyes dull and face sallow Hector expired.

_Plague arrow_ , Patroclus thought dizzily, letting the arrow escape his fingertips. 

Patroclus slumped to the ground. His hand which was pressed to his side came back wet and hot. He felt dizzy, his pain stretched into a dull ache, unwinding him until he became nothing but a numbing ache that continued to spill out from him.

“Patroclus!” Achilles’ voice was pleasant and somewhat far away, Patroclus couldn’t help but think. He was laying upon his back, looking up towards the sky that stretched as blue and dark as his dreams, the sun blazing golden as the fields of his childhood. From where he lay it looked so clear and pure, a sliver of nature untouched upon the earth that he could not help but sob. It was there in that sky, but he had never seen it before. He hadn’t needed to look, when what he had been looking for had been there with him the whole time. 

“I did it,” Patroclus said feeling tears slip from his eyes. “I broke the curse, Achilles.”

“None of that means anything if you die,” Achilles told him softly and urgently. “Hold on, just hold on.”

Patroclus was lifted and carried easily, light as a feather…drifting…

* * *

In Pthia everything was golden. They ran across sun warmed beaches, playing catch with figs and bathing in the shade of a grove. It was Achilles, always Achilles his smile and laughter and the soles of his feet that flashed as he kicked up sand in perfect arches. The other Patroclus had dreamed himself small, but Achilles pried open the world to him. In return Achilles crafted a façade for the world, and only allowed Patroclus to view the trueness within. The other Patroclus kissed Achilles upon a beach, Achilles kissed Patroclus in a cave, the other Patroclus had taken Achilles’ mantle, and Achilles anointed him with tears. Patroclus lingered in the dark until he found the light once more, which poured out between their fingertips that met in the fields wreathed in mist and shadow.

It was in one of those fields, that the scene was laid. Desolate and dark, with air so thick that Patroclus could scarcely draw in breath, he felt as if it took everything within him to keep from disappearing. In this moment, the scene unfolded before him.

“My son was cheated from his glory,” Thetis growled, upon the edge of a dark river as three crones tended a spinning wheel. Perhaps it was the river that was causing the unbearable air, as it swirled milky and deep and nearly alive at her ankles. 

“You son reached Elysium,” one said as she spun, fingers thin as branches tending to the golden thread.

“A highest of honors,” another added as she pulled the thread, plucking it with precision from the thousands of golden threads.

“What else could be done, he was mortal,” the last one chuckled as she reached with golden scissors and cut, the noise echoing and Thetis flinched as if she had been slapped—as if mortality was the deadliest of insults.

“Weave my son a new fate, spin it so that he may join the gods as he truly deserves,” Thetis said, her voice catching as if trapped in a tide-pool. It swirled in his ears with desperation. 

“Unravel the tapestry?” Spin.

“Undo this world in entirety?” Pull.

“One son is not worth this.” Cut.

“Not this whole world, I agree,” Thetis said as she offered forward something that glowed golden, an apple. “But undo one boy, and that should be enough.”

“ _Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses—_ “ Spin.

“ _—hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, great fighters’ souls but made their bodies carrion, feasts for the dogs and birds—_ ” Pull.

“ _—and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end. Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed, Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles._ ” Cut.

“You would change the fate of Patroclus?” Spin.

“You would change the tapestry of the world and defy Zeus?” Pull.

“All of this just to give Achilles another chance at immortality?” Cut.

“I would,” Thetis said as she continued to offer the golden apple to the Fates, her fingers a frigid blue-white against the gloom, glowing as if from within. 

“Then a lesson shall be learned,” Clotho said with a vicious smile as she stilled the spinning wheel for one moment to grasp the apple.

“We shall take you up on a deal and change one boy’s fate,” Lachesis said as she fished a single golden thread from the tapestry, taking the apple from Clotho’s grasp and then handing it on.

“If Achilles earns immortality it shall remain, if not, it shall be up to you to pay the price,” Atropos said as she grasped the apple and the thread.

Atropos wrenched it free and everything unraveled. Patroclus was sliding backwards, into the darkness, into the water that would wash everything away, where everything intertwined crashed together became connected. Where was Patroclus, where was Achilles—

When he surface was he was no longer in the river, but instead within a place that was almost a cruel reimagining of that wonderful place in Pthia where his days had been golden as that golden apple. In the House of the Dead, its Lord looked at Patroclus with critical eyes. His soul quaked as he pointed ahead across the Styx and to the world above.

“My kingdom has been engorged with dead upon this day, I shall not find you truly among them yet,” Hades said quietly, his voice not terrible but instead the quality of distant contemplative prayer. “Return, for now.”

“You will let me go?” Patroclus croaked, his mouth ashen, his body trembling as if caught by a quake.

“No human has ever left my grasp, Patroclus. I have a vested interest in keeping you alive for now, if only that it will vex my siblings,” Hades said before looking down on him with eyes that burned like hot coal and a sneer that made Patroclus’ teeth chatter. “You think too highly of yourself, it is as if a fly is asking the whim of a man whether or not he should be squashed. You are not meant to die on this day, so you will not die. Now, be off with you before I change my mind.”

Patroclus gulped. He found Hades’ point extremely compelling for reasons obviously stated above, and realized that arguing with Hades should probably be left to someone more equipped to deal with the situation who wasn’t a fly about to be squashed in the previous metaphor. And so Patroclus ran, his feet hitting the darkened sand, he ran until he became light, ran until he swam through the air, floating up—

Green eyes were the first thing he saw. The green of verdant meadows and eyes in a boy so brilliant it could make him cry. 

“Good morning, Patroclus,” Achilles said, resting Patroclus’ head on his legs, fingers pressed gently to his cheek.

Patroclus took in a labored and aching breath and smile so big his cheeks hurt until Achilles covered his lips with his own to sooth his hurt. And nothing had ever felt as sweet as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fates' Meta
> 
> “Rage - Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles,  
> murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,  
> hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,  
> great fighters' souls, but made their bodies carrion,  
> feasts for the dogs and birds,  
> and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end.  
> Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed,  
> Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.”
> 
>  
> 
> ― Homer, The Iliad (Book 1)


	12. The Greatest Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He has no match in battle,” Apollo said seriously, black eyes burning through Patroclus with their knowledge of deeper things than Patroclus could ever know. “So I shall give him a match.”
> 
> In an alternate telling, Patroclus is a farmboy drafted into the side of Troy and barely managing to survive from battle to battle, and Achilles is the best of the Greeks. After interference by the God Apollo, Patroclus becomes the Trojans' best hope and Achilles' greatest labor. Canon Divergent AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT’S DONE, IT’S COMPLETE AND IT’S DONE AND OVER WOOOOOO
> 
> I really couldn’t figure out what I wanted for an epilogue. I could have probably have written a fanfic with how many different iterations I came up with. But in the end I decided on this. Thank you so much for everyone who has supported, left kudos, or commented on A Thousand Victories! You all rock and gave me all the inspiration I needed! Thank you for being my Muses :)

The night Achilles sought his mother was a few days after Patroclus had finished telling his tale in its entirety. At night his dreams burst open, as if before being barely contained. Achilles could see now, Achilles knew. Achilles the first night had burned with anger, but Patroclus forbid him from going. Achilles had paced and raged like a caged animal in his own bones, but Patroclus had held his ground from where he rested injured and still unable to move. The second night, Achilles still burned and Patroclus still forbid with the certainty of a man standing tall and strong not pressed between sheets and pale. The third night his anger had dimmed but not faded and Patroclus still remained steadfast, and Achilles understood that Patroclus’ weapon was indeed his stubborn nature.

Finally on the fourth night, his anger had mostly burned itself out, and he could finally grapple heads from tails with what he was feeling: betrayal. And finally with Patroclus’ blessing he walked to the sea. He walked for some time, feeling the ocean beckon and call to him. But for the first time the interest in joining the sea held no appeal. There was only what he was there for, and he found her pressed against the wall of a cove, little and bent, but only so in body masking what lay beneath like a vicious riptide.

“So I see you’ve finally found your way back here,” the woman said, hunched by the dark water which flowed and ebbed. Her face was turned away from him, but Achilles knew that hard and cold voice anywhere, knew how it could twist him into everything that he did not want. And this time he truly understood the price he had paid for his acceptance.

“I know what you have done,” Achilles said quietly, still in control, laying out every word carefully as he had practiced within his head and to Patroclus. “How could you do this? How could you take him from me? How could you take me from him?”

“Do not flatter yourself,” Thetis hissed but did not look up to see him. “I thought nothing of him—that wretched creature who only served to ruin you. I only thought of you. I did what I had to do to save you, and yet you have been ruined by him again. You will not become an immortal, and this time I will be ruined with you.”

“I have never wanted to be immortal,” Achilles said as he clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to strike out, he wanted to hurt. He could feel violence pulsing hot and angry in his veins, desperate to be released. But he couldn’t bring himself to harness that energy, because it had no place here in this moment. No matter how angry he was with his mother, he still loved her.

“You are not my son,” Thetis said coldly and angrily. “My son would not do this to me.”

“Nothing that you could suffer could be worse than what you have done to Patroclus,” Achilles nearly spat. “I will spend the rest of this feeble life of mine undoing what you have done to injure his spirit. In the end we shall be together in life and in death you won’t ever stop me!”

“You are right, I won’t ever be able to stop you,” Thetis said as she kept her head turned away and towards the water and giving a bitter laugh. “Because this is my punishment. I have a son I will not be able to keep. I will never have another chance. Immortality, it is so cruel.”

“We agree,” Achilles said as he turned his head, no longer able to bear looking at her. “You won’t stop me. All this time you’ve never been able to see it. You never were able to look past Patroclus’ mortality, it’s like thought it blighted him like a curse. But it wasn’t true. Patroclus has always saved me, no matter what kind of obstacles he had to overcome. Patroclus was always a greater hero than I could ever be, a greater man than I could ever conceive. I thought one day I could help you see what I saw in him, but I was wrong. And for now, I will accept that, Mother.” 

“Why could my love for you never be enough?” Thetis asked him, aching and mourning.

“My love was never yours to fully possess,” Achilles told her, turning his back upon her. “I’ll still hope to see you again, when I am ready.”

Achilles walked back to the tents never once looking back upon the river.

When he returned to recognizable beaches, and to tents he knew, he spotted Briseis leaving the tent where he had left her with Patroclus. She looked towards him when he approached and smiled kindly, waiting for him as she closed the flap of the tent.

“He’s a kind and gentle man,” Briseis commented with that secretive grin of hers, dark eyes whispering secrets he had yet to divulge to her. “You could learn a thing of sweetness by listening long and hard to him.”

“Soldiers prefer their heroes bold and lusty,” Achilles told her with a roll of his eyes but with little heat to back up his claims.

“Heroes, yes. Lovers perhaps not,” Briseis’ voice curled and smoothed over her perfect knowing smile. “Will you stay?”

“Patroclus cannot be moved, and I still have the war to fight. For now, we shall stay and you will come with us if we leave. This I promised Patroclus,” Achilles told her. For a moment Briseis looked as if she would reach out to him, but instead bowed her head and walked off.

Achilles entered the tent to see Patroclus resting. He slept still and silently, only the rise and fall of his chest signaling his life. Achilles moved to brush dark curls from warm skin, taking pleasure in how the curls stubbornly pulled back as he tucked them behind his ears. This too he liked about Patroclus. He was discovering newer pleasures every day and there was pleasure in that. And when Patroclus was well, they would fight together, and they would run together, and they would remain side by side always as it had been intended. And in those thoughts Achilles found a peculiar kind of joy he had never conceived. Could so much happiness but brought by one person? He could only hope this spring would continue to well up forever. It would sooth his ache to know that he would be with Patroclus forever, if he could, if Patroclus would allow it. And by the Gods he prayed that they would allow it. After all, a long uneventful life with Patroclus seemed to be the greatest adventure yet to unfold.

Patroclus stirred and nuzzled into Achilles’ touch, kissing his fingertips languidly, allowing Achilles’ fingertips to slip to his neck and collarbone.

“How did it go?” Patroclus asked as Achilles shifted the blankets to check his wounds, and found nothing of note. He lay down carefully, so as to not stir him, but Patroclus gave him a luck and Achilles moved in closer and lazily draped an arm over his chest.

“As I expected,” Achilles hummed with a kiss against Patroclus’ shoulder. “It is alright, I know my mother. She loves me, so she will come around eventually. This I know.”

“I see,” Patroclus did not move to say otherwise, and Achilles could tell the depth of his wish was present in Patroclus as well.

“For now this is enough,” Achilles told Patroclus. “We’ll have Pthia, Patroclus. My father dies in anticipation to meet you. Odysseus wishes to introduce us to Penelope first so maybe we’ll go there. Oh! Or perhaps—“

“If you wish to go to so many places, we may never get home, and don’t forget there is a war still yet to fight,” Patroclus said with a laugh that suddenly broke off. Achilles could feel Patroclus’ skin warm, and couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Home is wherever you are, whoever you are, and wherever you’ll be Patroclus. And I belong with you. I knew that from the moment I saw you,” Achilles told him earnestly. Patroclus turned his face, and Achilles pressed their foreheads together.

“That is enough,” Patroclus promised.

“More than any victory.”

They rested there together until the sun set, deep and low beyond the horizon.


End file.
